Ho'omau (Persist, Persevere)
by bloodmagik
Summary: A series of character studies from a student paramedic's perspective. Kind of... Plenty of whump all round.
1. Chapter 1

I thought I'd try something a little bit different this time. Hopefully it works...

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Hawaii Five-0 (other than seasons 1-4 on DVD). I do, however, own Chloe and the other OC's that appear in this fic. This is unbeta-ed so any and all mistakes are of my own making._

* * *

Prologue.

I've wanted to be a paramedic for about as long as I can remember.  
My mom claims my obsession with becoming an EMT stems from the time my older brother, Jack, broke his leg falling out of the giant oak tree at the bottom of our garden. I was three and extremely shy, the sort of kid who had to be pried from around their mother's leg in any kind of social situation, but I took a shine to one of the medics who turned up to cart my brother off to the emergency room and refused to let him out of my sight. His name was David and he let me help fit the brace that would stabilize poor Jack's broken leg for the ride to the hospital. I cried myself to sleep in my mom's arms when David had to go out on another call.  
More than twenty years on, Mom still refers to him as 'my little Chloe's first crush'.

Despite my ongoing dream of becoming a qualified paramedic, when it came time to go to college I ended up following in my daddy's footsteps by studying accountancy at the University of Illinois.  
I met Eddie Ray at a house party when I was in my freshman year. He was a senior and the captain of the football team, but behind the swagger and boyish bravado, there was something rather sweet about the cute, sandy-haired quarterback from Washington State. He asked me out on a date the next afternoon.  
Four months before I graduated, Eddie was offered what he touted to me as 'the opportunity of a lifetime' – a three year contract working as a junior consultant for a large construction company based in Hawaii. I was twenty-two and head over heels in love, so I packed up all of my belongings and followed Eddie out to Honolulu just as soon as the ink had dried on my diploma. Eight months later, he left me for a forty-something year old widow he'd met at a party the company had thrown for him the week he arrived.

I spent the better part of a week sobbing into a pint of Ben and Jerry's before Katie, my best friend on the island, told me to get a grip. At the time, I was a little hurt by her attitude. The man I'd moved halfway across the country for hadn't even had the decency to dump me face-to-face. Surely I should have been allowed to wallow in my own self-pity for just a little while longer before being forced to sort through the mess that was my life?  
Katie did what all good friends do when their bestie has just been dumped by text message; She raided her closet for what she referred to as her 'get lucky' dress and dragged me out to a club in downtown Waikiki. I spent the night knocking back fancy cocktails and pretty-colored vodka shots in an attempt to numb the pain in my heart.

I don't remember much of what happened after the second Fishbowl cocktail appeared on the table in front of me but when I woke up the next morning, I found a print out with contact details for the Kapi'olani Community College admissions office taped to the door of my refrigerator. Already late for work, and suffering with the hangover from hell, I shoved the sheet of paper in a drawer and forgot all about it until Eddie the love rat came crawling back for the rest of his belongings a few weeks later.

The night Eddie officially moved out, Katie cornered me in the kitchen as I was hunting for a corkscrew to open the bottle of wine she'd brought with her to celebrate my new life as a single woman.  
_Just think about it_, she'd ordered, shoving an application form into my hands before she decanted a healthy amount of Pinot Noir into my glass. It was probably the drink talking but by the end of the night, I was convinced that it was now or never. I was staying in Hawaii and I was more determined than ever to take the first step towards following my dream.

* * *

_14 weeks later…_  
My hands are shaking as I walk into the Kapi'olani Community College admissions office armed with a bulging manila envelope containing my carefully filled-in application forms, a copy of my drivers license, CPR certificate, background check and vaccinations record tucked under my arm. As excited as I am, it's all I can do to hold back the tears as I hand my application over to the admissions clerk to be checked. The guy must think I'm a total loon, welling up over paperwork but this is so much more than just a college application. This is my chance to start over.

I'm pretty sure that Eddie expected me to hightail it back to the mainland after he broke my heart but I had other ideas. I had to beg and borrow from my parents in order to scrape together enough money to take the anatomy and physiology classes that are a prerequisite for the EMT basic course I'm applying for. Money was tight as I was still living in the house we'd chosen based on having a joint income. Instead of partying, I spent my nights pouring over textbooks and doing coursework. I pleaded with my colleagues and offered favors in exchange for shift swaps to get enough time away from work to do my CPR certification. It's been tough but I hope that the extra few hours spent filing Sandra-from-payroll's paperwork and entertaining Bradley-from-management's adorable little girl will all be worth it in the end.

Katie is waiting for me when I step back out into the sunshine. She's been my rock over the last few months and I don't think I'll ever be able to repay her for everything she's done for me.

"So?" she asks, smiling encouragingly as I sink down onto the faded wooden bench beside her. "How'd it go?"

"That was one of the hardest things I've ever done," I tell her honestly. Katie laughs and I can't help but smile. Her attitude is somewhat contagious now that I've successfully conquered the first of my demons.

"Well, you better get used to it," she says, nudging my shoulder with her own. "You should be proud of yourself. You just gave Eddie Ray the Chloe equivalent of the finger."

I snort at that but despite my laughter, my heart still feels like it's about to burst out of my chest so I lean back against the bench's slatted backrest and take a deep breath, allowing the heat from the sun to calm the strands of apprehension that are coiling in my belly.

Have I done the right thing? I don't really know…  
All I can do now is wait and see.

* * *

_As always, any feedback/opinions would be very much appreciated. _


	2. Chapter 2

It's five thirty in the morning and Katie's slumped over the breakfast bar in our new, shared apartment, watching as I nervously smooth a non-existent wrinkle from the front of my uniform shirt. Today is the dawn of what Katie likes to call "The New Chloe". It's also my first day working as an EMT and Katie, bless her heart, insisted on getting up to see me off. I really don't know what I'd do without her. "Are you excited?" she asks sleepily, stifling a jaw-cracking yawn with her hand. I shrug. "Yeah, I guess." Honestly? I'm scared shitless and my voice wobbles as I clip my ID badge to my belt. For a second, I'm scared that I'm going to burst into tears because holy shit, this is real. Eleven weeks ago I was sitting in a classroom listening to a lecture on airway management and now I'm just minutes away from being the difference between life and death for whoever is unlucky enough to need emergency medical assistance. "You'll be great," Katie whispers, sliding round the counter to hug me tightly. "I'm so proud of you, Chlo-Chlo." She drops me off at the base in Koapaka Street 30 minutes before the start of my 12-hour shift. "Go get 'em, Girl," are her last words of advice before she peels out of the parking lot with the promise of a celebratory dinner at the restaurant of my choice that evening. As I stand gazing up at the Department of Emergency Services sign above the doorway, the little voice in my head has me questioning whether this is such a good idea after all. But behind the whispered taunts, there's another voice drowning it out and urging me on. I've come too far to fall at the last hurdle so I take a deep breath, reach for the door handle and push my way into the brightly lit foyer of the building that will be my home base for the next two years. "Hi," I say to the young man sat behind the desk in reception. "I'm supposed to be starting today? My name's Chloe Sweeting." He points at the door to my left, not even bothering to look up from the game he's playing on his phone. "Through there," he grunts at me. "At the end of the hall." Okay then… "You'll have to excuse Andy," a new voice chirps from behind me. "He appears to have forgotten his manners." Startled, I spin round, grabbing hold of my bag as the strap slips down over my shoulder. The voice belongs to an older woman with cropped dark hair and a soft Jersey drawl. She smiles warmly as she beckons for me to follow her. "My name's Heather," she says, directing me towards one of the tables in the empty break room as she pours steaming hot coffee into two brightly colored mugs. "I'm your new partner. Cookie?" She pushes an open packet of Double-Stuffed Oreos across the table with smile and a wink. Mmmm, I like her already. I sip at my coffee as we go through the usual first-day paperwork and then Heather checks that my CPR certification and shots are all up to date before leading me through to the garage where our assigned vehicle is waiting for us in one of the numbered bays out back. The first job of the day for every team is prepping the rigs for the day ahead, so I get to work hosing off the outside of our bus while my new partner scrubs down the surfaces inside and replaces any soiled linen. We take turns checking the Defibrillator and monitoring equipment on board and then move onto our final job - restocking our go-bags with everything from alcohol wipes to IV cannulas and intubation kits. I try to take note of what goes where as Heather ticks each item off against an official checklist Prep work almost complete, I feel a tingle of excitement when Heather motions for me to flip on the siren and emergency lights so she can check they're working before we head out. Childishly, I clap my hands with glee when the garage is flooded with bright blue light. I've always wanted to do that. Finally, the checks are complete and I slide in behind the wheel, and turn the key in the ignition as my partner climbs into the passenger seat beside me. Heather has almost 1800 hours of training under her belt as an EMT-Paramedic so it's her job to monitor the patient during transport to the nearest hospital. It's up to me to get them there. As we pull out of the depot gates, Heather logs us into the automated dispatch system interface that's linked to the call-handling unit in the building behind us, letting dispatch know that we're available for jobs. Almost as soon as we're confirmed as being available, a job flashes up on the screen. "Eighty-six year old female with a suspected broken hip after falling out of bed," Heather reads out as she accepts the job and reaches over to flip on the emergency lights. It's the height of the morning rush hour but the sea of traffic parts when they see the flashing blue lights coming up behind them and thanks to the information being fed to us via the GPS, we make it to the scene in under ten minutes. "Why don't you take the lead on this one, Chloe?" Heather suggests as we pull up to the curb. "The only way you're going to get experience is by actually doing things so we might as well start as we mean to go on." By late-morning, we've been called out to two suspected heart attacks, a minor road traffic collision and a sick toddler, and we're parked up near the beach, waiting for our next job to come through. My first few hours on the job have been adrenaline-fueled but as much as I'm enjoying being challenged, I have to admit it's a relief to have a few minutes respite in between callouts. "I hope you like shrimp," Heather grins as she passes a heaped cardboard container and bottle of cold water in through the open window. She slides into the passenger seat and tucks into her meal with gusto. "Eat up, kiddo," she instructs in between mouthfuls of garlic scampi. "We might not get another chance to stop today so we need to take advantage while it's quiet." My lunch smells amazing but I don't get a chance to enjoy it; my fork is halfway to my mouth when a new job flashes up on the screen in front of us and I hurriedly shove the piece of shrimp into my mouth, quickly following it with a second piece and then a third. According to the information coming through from dispatch, we're being sent to one of the industrial areas in Kalihi-Palama to treat two males, one of whom has a head injury. "Jinx…" I slip out of my seat to decant our half-finished meals into the nearest trashcan. Heather just laughs and reaches for her safety belt. "Get used to it," she grins. The industrial estate is swarming with cops when we pull up to the scene and we immediately head round to start pulling equipment from the storage lockers inside our rig. As I pull on a pair of latex gloves, Heather discreetly points out a tall, dark-haired man. I stop for a moment, watching him bark orders at various people, seemingly oblivious to the impressive amount of blood that's caked down the side of his face. He looks vaguely familiar. "That's Commander McGarrett," Heather says quietly, hefting her go-bag up onto her shoulder. "He can be kinda difficult if you don't know how to handle him so I think it would be better if I took point on this one, just until we find out what's happening." Ah… I knew I recognized him from somewhere. I spent a lot of time studying for my Anatomy class with the TV on low in the background and Commander McGarrett happens to be a regular on the local news stations, what with him being the head of the Governor's Five-0 task force. And then there's all the rumors about the guy's penchant for blowing things up; I heard he once used a hand grenade to open a locked door. I mean, what the hell, right? Heather must see the panic flit across my face because she smiles and pats my shoulder comfortingly. "Don't you worry, honey. He's just a big pussycat, really. C'mon, grab that kit bag and let's go see what kind of trouble he's gotten himself into this time." Obediently, I grab the kit bag and the oxygen tank, and follow Heather across the lot to where McGarrett is in the middle of what looks to be a full-blown argument with a smartly-dressed blond man who's only an inch or so taller than I am. Heather stops a good 20 feet away from the two men and leans back against an HPD cruiser to wait out the argument. The blond man isn't exactly keeping his voice down and I cringe when I hear some of the barbed insults that are being thrown in the commander's direction. "That's Detective Williams," Heather says before I can ask. "He's McGarrett's parter." "Is this normal?" I whisper back, glancing over at the detective's rapidly reddening face. He's right up in the commander's personal space, jabbing his index finger into the taller man's sternum. Heather chuckles. "Pretty much. They're always arguing like an old married couple. It's best to just wait it out when they're like this." And she's right. It only takes a few minutes for the detective to notice us hovering on the sidelines. "Hey," he calls, beckoning us closer. "Would one of you do me a favor and tell this Neanderthal here that it's not a good idea to run around after getting your head bashed in by a piece of two-by-four?" Ouch… I wince at the image Detective Williams' words create in my mind. They certainly help to explain the large amount of blood on McGarrett's face; the jagged wound at the commander's temple is bleeding freely and the collar of his light blue t-shirt is stained red where the trail has worked its way down the side of his neck. For some reason, it reminds me of that scene in Stephen King's Carrie – you know, the one where she gets drenched with the bucket of pig blood before going on a murderous rampage. "Did he lose consciousness at all?" Heather, thankfully, is fully focussed on the task at hand. She directs the question at Detective Williams as she pulls her penlight from her shirt pocket and reaches out to hold the commander's head still. "He says he didn't," the blond replies, fixing his partner with what can only be described as a withering look. "But you know as well as I do that he can't be trusted." McGarrett scowls at this, and opens his mouth to retaliate but I seize my chance and jump in before the two men can descend into another heated argument. "We were told there are two casualties." I glance over at Heather as I bump my kit bag further up onto my shoulder. "Do you want me to go find out where the second one is at?" For some unknown reason, Williams finds my question amusing; He smirks and glances over at the commander before opening his mouth to reply. "One of the morons we just arrested tried to resist so Steven here went all Super Seal on his ass and busted the guy's wrist. I don't think I've ever heard anyone scream so loud." "Served him right," McGarrett mutters mutinously as Heather checks his pupils. "The stupid son-of-a-bitch pulled a gun on a little kid and - " He jerks his head back when Heather's penlight moves from his left eye to his right and the color drains from his face. He takes a wobbly half step backwards and my kit bag is quickly abandoned in favor of grabbing hold of Commander McGarrett's arm to help minimize the damage should he pass out and fall. "Oh, for God's sake… Sit down before you fall, moron," Williams barks, twisting a hand in his partner's sleeve. "I will not be held responsible for any additional damage caused by you being a stubborn jackass." The detective's tone is abrupt, almost bordering on rude, but it's not entirely unexpected given the battle of wills I was witness to earlier. If I'm being totally honest, I'm finding his no-bullshit, voice-of-reason attitude kind of refreshing. The commander, on the other hand, is being about as reasonable as a teenage girl the week before her period. "I said I was fine, Danny," McGarrett snaps, having apparently gotten over his sudden bout of dizziness as suddenly as it came on. He's still pale beneath the smears of blood covering his face but despite being concussed, his glare doesn't lack any of the intensity it had before he nearly passed out. I find myself swallowing nervously when he turns his attention to where my hand is still wrapped around his bicep. "What part of 'I'm fine' don't you understand?" he growls, jerking his arm out of my grip with enough force to throw me off balance. Thankfully, Detective Williams is there to steady me before I can fall backwards over my abandoned kit bag. Heather shoots me a look over her shoulder – a combination of sympathy and "I told you so" – before turning back to frown at our rather uncooperative patient. "That's enough," she says sternly. "Sit down, Commander, before I make you sit down." It takes a similar veiled threat from Detective Williams to get McGarrett to back down and Heather winks at me as the commander grudgingly sinks to the floor, chastised. "He's all yours, Chloe," she tells me. With that, she swings her kit bag up onto her shoulder and motions for Williams to direct her towards our injured criminal. "Lead the way, Detective." Wait… She's leaving me alone with this guy? Oh, God... The atmosphere is so tense I could cut it with a knife. I can feel the commander's laser-focused gaze boring into the side of my head as I get to work checking his vitals but I do my best to ignore him. I press my fingers into the underside of his wrist, focusing my gaze on the second hand of the watch that's pinned to my blue uniform shirt and make a note McGarrett's heart rate on the back of my gloved hand before wrapping the pressure cuff around his bicep. Once I'm satisfied with his vitals, I move onto examining the nasty-looking laceration at his hairline. Whoever he is, the commander's attacker has done a stellar job; I can barely see the wound for the amount of blood that's steadily oozing from it. "This is going to need stitches," I say, gently pushing the wound's jagged edges together once I've wiped away the excess blood. Funnily enough, I'm not surprised when the commander doesn't agree with my assessment. "Just put a couple of Steri-strips over it. It'll be fine." The look on his face is daring me to disagree and I hesitate, allowing a hint of doubt to creep into my thoughts. Was I wrong about the head wound needing stitched? I give myself a shake and then take another look to make sure. "Steri-strips aren't going to close this properly. It's too deep and it should really be flushed out in case there's any debris in there." I'm feeling a lot more confident after the little pep talk in my head. "You need to get checked out by a doctor. You took quite a hit and nearly passed out on us earlier so I would recommend - " "I don't need a doctor and I'm not going to the hospital," McGarrett growls, cutting me off mid-sentence. "You know what, just forget it. I have work to do."&lt; Before I can say anything, he's pushing himself to his feet and stomping off across the lot towards the line of squad cars that are parked in the shade at the side of the warehouse. I stare at his retreating back in shock, my feet rooted to the spot until the slamming of a car door somewhere behind me brings me hurtling back to my senses. However, after a few minutes, it's pretty obvious that the commander isn't coming back and I turn my attention to the equipment lying scattered at my feet. "Asshole," I mutter under my breath as I shove my stethoscope and pressure cuff back into my kit bag with a little more force than necessary. Hefting the heavy bag up onto my shoulder, I stalk back across the parking lot towards my rig, cursing loudly when I catch my foot on a crack in the tarmac and stumble. Across the lot, Heather's patient is being helped into the back of the bus by a uniformed officer, who cuffs one of the guy's ankles and his uninjured wrist to the gurney for the fifteen minute ride to Queens Medical. It's a stark reminder that not all of my patients are going to be innocents who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Swinging myself up into the driver's seat, I can't help but wonder once more what exactly it is that I've just gotten myself into. 


	3. Chapter 3 - Part 1

_This one kind of spiralled out of control so I've decided to post it in two parts. Part two should hopefully be up by Monday._  
_This still isn't beta-ed and I'm still not a doctor. Subject matter could be distressing for some so read on at your own risk._

* * *

I'm six days in when I lose my first patient. The fact that paramedics face a daily battle with death had been ingrained into me by my college lecturers from the very first day right up until the minute I walked out onto the stage at graduation. I thought I was prepared for it, but in reality it turns out that I was anything but.

We're nearly at the end of our shift when we get the call. There's been a pile-up on the Veterans Memorial Freeway and there are multiple vehicles involved, and that means multiple casualties. Heather's face is grim as she reaches across the dashboard to flip on the lights and siren.  
Our bus is lit up like the Las Vegas strip as we barrel along the freeway in convoy with another ambulance but as we get closer to the scene it becomes apparent that our 'blues and twos' are going to be about as useful as a chocolate teapot. The H2 freeway ahead of us is at a standstill. All six lanes of it.  
Tapping my index finger against the steering wheel impatiently, I glance over at the hard shoulder but the damn thing has been cordoned off due to work that's being done on an exit ramp a few miles ahead of us. My only option is to push my way through the mass of unmoving cars.

"Move, damnit… Oh, C'mon!" I growl at an Escalade, whose driver has yet to notice that we're behind him. Frustrated, I lean on the horn. It does the trick and he finally pulls over enough for us to squeeze past. "Thank you! Finally…"

It's slow going. It takes us nearly eight minutes to cover a mile and a half but we eventually make it past the road works and I'm able to swing out onto the hard shoulder, and put my foot down. Despite the delay, we're one of the first to arrive at the scene. There's a marked police car parked across the two middles lanes of the freeway, stopping traffic, and several more parked along the median, as well as another ambulance and a first responder car. Two fire trucks pull in behind us as we hurriedly gather equipment from our rig.

"Hard hat," Heather reminds me as she pulls the defibrillator and an oxygen tank from one of the lockers. "I'm gonna go find out what happened and who's in charge."

My hands are shaking as I jam my protective hard hat onto my head. Behind me, the tarmac is littered with debris. Glass from several shattered windscreens glitters ominously under the orange-yellow glow of the streetlamps overhead and I feel it crunch beneath my feet as I pick my way through the wreckage towards my partner and a man I can only assume is the scene commander.

"There were six vehicles involved," Sargent Lukela explains as he directs us to the front of the pile-up where a semi and a car have collided. "According to witnesses, the truck started to swerve and then it jack-knifed before slamming into the central divider and colliding with the car. The driver appears to have suffered a heart attack at the wheel. He's already been pronounced."

"What about the driver of the car?" I ask, glancing at the mangled wreck in front of me. The car is almost unrecognizable, having been crushed by the sheer magnitude of the impact. The front end on the driver's side is sitting pinned beneath the trailer of the over-turned semi.

"Alive, but only just," Lukela says grimly. "I had two of my guys smash the windscreen but her legs are pinned somewhere underneath the dashboard."  
As we get closer, I can just about make out a high-pitched keening sound over the wail of sirens and my heart just about jumps up into my mouth.

"Is that a baby?" Heather asks with a frown.

The sergeant nods sadly. "Yeah, there's a kid in there with her, can't be much older than one and a half, two years old. The impact jammed the doors so we can't get to either of them until Fire and Rescue get here."

"They pulled in right behind us," Heather reassures him. "As soon as they jimmy the doors, we'll get in there and get them both stabilized for transport."

"I'll go get the back board," I offer, setting my kit bag down on the ground. "Is there anything else you need me to grab?"

"Just the board." Heather looks back to Lukela and I hear her ask, "How far out is Medevac?" as I turn and start to run.

Between us, Heather and I decide that I'll work on the driver until Medevac arrives and then I'll help Heather with the baby. I'm hyped up on adrenaline, my heart racing, and my hand is clenched tightly around the strap of my kit bag as I wait impatiently for the all clear to go in and start treating my patient. Thankfully, it takes Fire and Rescue less than a minute to force open the doors. As soon as the job is done, the two fire officers and Sargent Lukela look to us for instructions.

"We're going to take the baby out first," my partner tells them. "As soon as the baby is out, we need to get someone in behind the driver to stabilize her head and neck while Chloe gets her prepped."

"I'll get one of my men to help you with that," Lukela offers, reaching for the radio clipped to his belt.

Heather nods. "Alright. Let's go, Chloe."

Ducking my head, I climb into the foot-well beside the driver. The driver is around my age, blond and slim, and it's pretty obvious from the amount of blood running down her face that she's hit her head off the windscreen. The glass is long gone thanks to HPD's rescue efforts but if it were still in place, there would be a starburst of tiny, spidery cracks radiating from a spot right above the steering wheel. The deflated airbag reminds me of a misshapen, baggy old gym sock.

The woman's seatbelt is still fastened but she's slumped over against the door, eyes closed, her head lolling against the shattered glass of the driver's side window. It's almost impossible to tell if she's still breathing and I reach across to check for a pulse, only letting out the breath I wasn't even aware I was holding when I feel the faint heartbeat fluttering beneath my fingertips. Moving closer, I can make out the gentle rise and fall of the woman's chest. A surge of relief floods through my veins.

"She's still alive," I shout, motioning over my shoulder for someone to pass over my kit bag. I grab the pressure cuff and my stethoscope and set both on the passenger seat in front of me before leaning over to give the woman's shoulder a gentle shake.  
"Hello," I call, squeezing her arm. "Can you hear me?" There's no response so I check her pupils and then wrap the pressure cuff around her arm.

"I've almost got the baby out," Heather calls back over the increasing _whap-whap-whap_ of the approaching Medevac helicopter. "We're having trouble getting the car seat restraints undone. How's she holding up?"

"She's unresponsive and tach-y. Pressure isn't great, either." I make a face at the reading as the crowd that's gathered around the damaged car suddenly erupts into shouts of joy.

"She's out!"

Thank God, is all I can think as the distraught child is wrapped in a blanket and Heather clutches her close to her chest. My own chest tightens when I catch a glimpse of the 'Frozen' character barrettes in the little girl's blond pigtails. As soon as Fire and Rescue pull the little girl's demolished booster seat out of the car, a uniformed officer slides in behind the driver's seat.

"I need you to hold her head still until I can get the brace on her." I position his hands and then gently tilt the driver's chin to open her airway. "Just there's perfect."

The woman stirs as I'm inserting an intravenous line near the crook of her elbow and she reaches out blindly, disorientated. "Sadie," she mumbles. "Where...?"

"It's okay." I grab hold of her hand and squeeze it tightly. "My name's Chloe, I'm a paramedic. What's your name?" The only response I get is a soft moan and I press my knuckles into the woman's sternum when her eyes slip shut. "Keep your eyes open for me." I press down a little harder until she responds by trying to move away from the pressure. "That's it," I say encouragingly. "Is Sadie your little girl? They've got her out of the car and my partner is checking her over. I can see them both from here. She's doing just fine."

Outside the car, the chief fire officer is examining the mangled wreck and I feel my heart sink when he calls out for the heavy-duty cutting equipment.

"We're going to have to take the roof off the car," he explains. "Once it's off, we can dismantle the front end and see what's trapping her in there."

I pause. "I want to stay with her."

The officer frowns at me, then shrugs. "It's your call. We all set?"

I glance down to where the young woman's hand is still clasped limply in my own and nod tightly. "Yes," I say. "We're all set."

Fire and Rescue have just started to dismantle to dashboard when I notice the young woman's eyes slipping shut once more, her dark eyelashes standing out in stark contrast against the paleness of her skin. That's when everything starts to go to shit. I give her hand another squeeze but there's no response.

"Hey, no sleeping, remember?" I say, shaking her shoulder. Nothing... A bubble of panic builds in my chest as I press the tip of my pen into the delicate skin beneath one of her fingernails. Still nothing... I look over at the two firemen in desperation. "How much longer?"

It takes the fire officers approximately ninety seconds to free the young woman's legs but by then it's already too late. Her blood pressure starts to drop almost as soon as the last piece of the dash is lifted clear. The rapid decline is terrifying.  
The piercing wail of an alarm startles me and for a moment, I panic as the woman starts to crash. Thankfully, I come back to my senses but it's almost as if I'm moving through syrup as I scramble over the center console and jam my fist into the crease between my patient's hip and her thigh.

"Someone get in here and take over," I yell. "We need to move her onto the seat and push it back until she's lying flat. On three…"

We work quickly to get her lying flat and a brace is fitted around her neck, an Ambu-bag pressed over her mouth and nose. Her chest rises with every forced push of air.

"Okay, towards me on three."

Four sets of hands pull the driver over onto her side while the backboard is placed beneath her and, finally, we're able to lift her clear of wreckage. I immediately get to work establishing a second line while one of the Medevac technicians, an older guy with kind eyes and a greying mustache, applies a tourniquet to the woman's thigh to try to get a handle on her blood pressure. The second is cutting through the woman's blouse and applying sticky pads to her chest. He hooks her up to the portable heart monitor and frowns at the print out.

"She's in asystole. Get ready to start CPR."

Sweat is beading beneath the waistband of my navy uniform pants and I'm breathing hard from the effort of keeping up a quick pace, my heart pounding against my ribcage. It feels like an eternity before the defibrillator beeps shrilly, signaling the end of the chest compressions. In reality, it's been less than a minute since I started.

"Stand back."

I sit back on my heels as the paddles are placed against the woman's chest.

"Clear."

Unfortunately, it's not like in the movies. The woman's heart doesn't automatically start beating again after the first shock, she doesn't gasp for air or miraculously regain consciousness. Instead, the countdown starts over and I push the heel of my hand into the woman's chest wall again and again until the muscles in my arms begin to cramp. I can feel tears mingling with the sweat on my face.

"Come _on_." I put my full weight behind the movement and then wince when I feel the woman's chest wall give under the pressure. There's no time to worry about it, though. Maintaining a constant supply of oxygen to the brain is the number one priority. Better a broken rib than oxygen deprivation.

Compressions. Adrenaline. Shock. We repeat the cycle over and over until my triceps are screaming out from lack of oxygen but I don't stop. Across from me, the older medic has one eye on the countdown timer and the other on his watch. I catch the downward pull of his mouth and the subtle shake of his head as sadness pools behind his eyes. Before he opens his mouth, I already know exactly what he's about to say.

"That's almost twenty-five minutes. Are we all in agreement?"

"No." I drop back onto my butt and cover my mouth with my hand to stifle the sob that's welling up in my chest. "There has to be something. Please…"

Both medics look at me with sympathetic eyes.  
"She's gone, kid," the older one says, his tone not un-kind. "There's nothing more we can do for her." He gently squeezes my shoulder and glances back down at his watch before continuing softly.

"Time of death, eighteen forty-seven."

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 3 - Part 2

Sorry about the delay. This one got away from me a little bit.  
More McGarrett whumpage to come in the next chapter. Fingers crossed it will go down on paper a bit easier than this one did.

_Unbeta-ed, as usual, and I'm still not a doctor. Read at your own risk._

* * *

I feel numb as Sargent Lukela crouches down beside the young woman and gently drapes a blanket over her lifeless body. I'm sitting in the back of our rig, the little girl lying curled up in my lap. A light blue blanket is wrapped around both of our shoulders. She's cute as a button, with fine white-blond hair and big blue eyes, and I gently run my hand over her head, gently tracing the outline of an emerging bruise with my fingertips. She's unharmed, bar a few bruises and a tiny cut on her forehead, but as relieved as I am that she's okay, it doesn't change the fact that the little girl's mother is dead. I replay everything over and over in my head as I watch her sleep, wondering what I could have done differently, if the outcome would have been the same if I hadn't dropped the ball. The little girl sleeps on in my arms, blissfully unaware that her life has just been turned upside down.

"Chloe."

I look up to find Heather standing in front of me with the crew from the Medevac chopper. "They're ready to take her to Kings. She'll be in good hands until social services can trace her family." I'm on autopilot as I gather the girl into my arms and move to stand up. Nothing about this situation seems real.

"Sadie," I whisper as I let the younger medic gently pry her out of my arms. "Her name is Sadie. Her mom…" I break off as my eyes fill with fresh tears.

"Sadie, huh?" The younger medic smiles sadly as he glances down at the precious bundle in his arms. "It suits her. We'll take real good care of her," he promises as he and his partner head back to the helicopter. Heather and I stand side by side, watching until the chopper's lights fade into the darkness above our heads. It's only when Heather squeezes my shoulder that I force myself to move.  
Back at headquarters, Heather steers me in the direction of the watch commander's office. It's quiet in this part of the building and I'm extremely grateful to my partner for giving me the opportunity to pull myself together in private before I'm forced to face the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the locker room.

"How are you holding up?" she asks softly, pressing a mug of hot, sweet tea into my hands. I shrug and wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth soothe the ache in my chest. I can't bring myself to meet her eye so I trace my finger over the colorful abstract pattern around the rim of my cup, thankful for the distraction. Heather smiles knowingly and gives my hand a sympathetic pat.

"The first one is always the hardest." Glancing down at her watch, she continues, "Okay, we are officially off the clock." I start to stand, intent on helping with the end-of-day housekeeping but Heather waves me off. "Don't worry about the rig - I'll sort it. See you on Wednesday."

I don't think I can face Katie just yet so instead of heading home I leave my car parked at the depot and start walking in the general direction of Waikiki. I'm not a big drinker but I want nothing more than to drown my sorrows - guilt - in a bottle of Jose Cuervo. I'd give just about anything to not be able to feel anything right now. I end up in a sports bar just off of Kapiolani Boulevard. It's dark and crowded inside and I manage to push my way to the bar without anyone giving me so much as a second glance.

"Tequila," I say to one of the guys behind the bar as I slide onto one of the high stools. "Make it a double." I let my head drop into my hands as I wait for my drink to be set down on the bar in front of me.

"Rough day?" someone asks. The voice belongs to a young Hawaiian woman with long dark hair and a figure a model would be proud of.

"Something like that."

Ignoring the saltshaker and lime wedge sitting beside my glass, I throw back the double shot of tequila. As soon as the last drops are past my lips, I signal to the bartender for a refill.

"Keep them coming," I tell him.

The young woman beside me offers me a sympathetic smile when I catch her eye but her pretty face quickly creases into a frown when she sees my rumpled shirt and the remnants of tears on my cheeks.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Her warm brown eyes are filled with concern but they quickly harden and her hand drifts towards the holster at her hip. Her body language practically screams 'cop' as she glances around the bar. "Is someone bothering you?" she asks quietly, leaning closer so I can hear her over the music and buzz of chatter in the background. It takes a few seconds for her meaning to sink in and I end up shaking my head so vigorously I'm in danger of putting those nodding bobble-head dolls you find on car dashboards out of a job.

"What? No, I just had a really bad day at work. You know how it is…"

My self-appointed protector looks skeptical. I can't really blame her; even to my own ears my 'bad day at work' explanation sounds rather lame. She's probably heard a million excuses like that one if she's a cop, as I suspect she is. She has that kind of air of authority about her, despite her girlish appearance and slender frame.

"I'm fine," I insist, offering the young woman what I hope is a reassuring smile, "Really."

I'm guessing my puffy, bloodshot eyes don't go a long way to convincing her that that's the case but my silent plea of _Please just drop it_ seems to do the trick. She doesn't push the issue. Instead, she simply nods as if she understands and smiles at me before leaning over the bar to shout her order in the barman's ear.

"I'm Kono," she says, giving me a friendly little wave while she waits for her drinks.

"Chloe." I raise my glass in reply and then proceed to down the contents. The alcohol burns my throat on the way down and I pull a face before slamming the empty glass down on the counter. The bartender sets four bottles of beer on the bar in front Kono and then tops up my glass before I can ask for another refill. Digging in her pocket, Kono drops a bill on the counter top and then pulls the bottles closer.

"Well, it was nice meeting you," she says, stooping to gather the bottles in her arms. "See you around, Chloe." With that, she starts to head back to her friends but after a few steps, she pauses and turns back around. "Do you want some company?" she asks, sounding slightly hesitant. "I'm here with the guys from work and they're talking about cars _again_." She wrinkles her nose before continuing, "I'll understand if you want to be alone, but it'd be nice to have another girl around to even out the numbers a little bit."

The thought of having to make polite conversation with a bunch of total strangers is less than appealing.

"I'm not really in the mood to be social," I say truthfully, running my index finger over the sticky rim of my shot glass. Then, remembering my manners, I quickly add, "But thank you. I appreciate the offer. Maybe next time?"

"Okay." Kono appears undaunted by my rejection. "If you change your mind, just come on over. We're in the booths over by the pool table."

"Sure," I nod. "See you around, Kono."

Kono leaves me to wallow in peace but truth be told, the inside of my head is anything but peaceful. Every time I close my eyes I see a mangled wreck and the lifeless body of Sadie's mom lying in the middle of the highway. Her face is bloody, her eyes dull and unseeing. The images are so clear, it's as if they've been burned into the back of my eyelids and I know there's no way I'll be getting any sleep any time soon. Not that it matters; if lack of sleep doesn't destroy me, my guilt probably will.  
Glancing up from my drink, I inadvertently make eye contact with none other than Commander McGarrett, who happens to be striding across the room to where I'm sitting at the bar. Groaning, I look away, drain the double measure in my glass, and silently pray to God that he'll keep on walking. Preferably straight past me and right out the front door.

"Is this seat taken?" he asks, all casual, like he didn't practically bite my head off the last time we spoke.

For a moment I'm tempted to say yes but it's pretty obvious that there isn't anyone sitting beside me. I doubt the guy will take no for an answer anyways so instead of wasting my breath, I simply shake my head and turn away to brush the lingering wetness from my face. Despite my contempt for the man, I'm embarrassed by my bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked mascara.

"What do you want?" I mutter irritably. I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the empty shot glass in my hand as the commander pulls out the chair and sits down beside me. Once he's seated, he leans forwards, resting his forearms on top of the bar. I see a flash of color peek out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt.

"You do know it wasn't your fault, don't you?"

The unexpected kindness catches me off guard and I turn to gape at the man. I don't know what I was expecting but it's certainly not the hint of concern I can see in the commander's eyes. It's a complete one-eighty from the arrogant asshole that almost sent me flying a few days back and damn, if it doesn't send the butterflies in my stomach straight into overdrive.

"Excuse me?" Somehow, it comes out sounding a hell of a lot more cordial than I was expecting it to.

"Kono's Five-0," McGarrett says, gesturing towards the pretty young Hawaiian woman from earlier - She's sitting in one of the booths at the back of the room with Detective Williams and an older man I don't know. "She recognized you from the warehouse the other day and Duke told me about the pile-up on H2. We kind of put two and two together - "

"And came up with five."

Goodbye, cordiality. Hello, contempt. I reckon my mother would have a fit if she could hear the way I'm talking to the highly decorated former Navy Seal but the commander gets this little half smile on his face and he rolls his eyes as though he was expecting nothing less than the go-to-hell attitude he's being subjected to.

"Look, I think we maybe got off on the wrong foot the other day," he says. His tone is so matter-of-fact that, for a moment, I'm not quite sure where he's going with this. "I was kind of a dick to you and I'm sorry."

"'Kind of' implies a certain degree of dick-ish-ness. You were a complete and utter asshole," I inform the commander icily, my tone leaving no room for discussion. I have to say I'm finding it rather fitting that this time it's me who's daring _him _to disagree.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what Danny – Detective Williams - said," McGarrett confesses. He at least has the decency to look sheepish. "Danny called me out on the way back to the office, told me he'd sic your partner on me if I didn't get my head out of my ass and beg for your forgiveness. Or something to that effect; I'm not really sure – I kind of zoned out after the first ten minutes."

I don't know what it is, but there's something in the way Commander McGarrett is describing the aftermath of our run-in that makes me crack. It's probably a combination of the alcohol and the commander's sheepish smile that does it. I'm trying to look stern and disapproving – because there's no way I'm going to let him walk away without apologising - but the thought of the six-foot Navy Seal being threatened with my five-foot-two slip of a partner, who's elfin features and pixie cropped hair make her look about as scary as a Labrador puppy that's been left out in the rain, makes me burst into peals of undignified laughter. It's a welcome change from the self-imposed guilt trip I've been on and once the laughter has started, I find it pretty much impossible to stop. Commander McGarrett leans back in his chair, watching me with an amused smile as tears of laughter run unhindered down my cheeks.

"I can't believe you're scared of Heather," I gasp when I'm finally able to talk again.

"Don't let her fool you," the commander retorts. His expression is deadly serious but there's a twinkle of laughter in his blue eyes that gives him away. "Your partner is one scary lady when she wants to be."

"Says you."

"Hey, I've had commanding officers that weren't anywhere near as scary as your partner is, and those were guys whose job it was to make even the toughest BUD/S recruits want to 'ring the bell'," McGarrett insists with a grin.

It's kind of nice to be joking around with him after all of the tension between us and eventually we lapse into a comfortable silence. After a moment, though, the commander's expression sobers and he clears his throat.  
"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." The man seems sincere and if Heather's comments about the commander being a trouble magnet are anything to go by, there's a very good chance that I'll end up running into McGarrett and his team sometime in the very near future. There isn't any point in being difficult just for the sake of it.

We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes before McGarrett turns to me and quietly asks, "Do you want to talk about what happened?" His tone is sympathetic and I just know that if I look at him, I'll start crying again.

"No." I shake my head emphatically because the last thing I want to do is talk, but it seems that once my mouth is open I can't stop the words from tumbling out. "I froze," I whisper, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on my empty shot glass as a tsunami-sized wave of fresh guilt washes over me. "That little girl's mom died because I froze."

My voice is wobbling and I can feel the prick of fresh tears building behind my eyes. Embarrassed, I clear my throat and motion to the bartender for another refill. As soon as the glass is full I throw it back and then grimace at the burning sensation the amber liquid leaves on its way down. At the rate I've been downing tequila, I'll be lucky to remember my own name at the end of the night. Thank God I'm off tomorrow.

McGarrett is quiet as he contemplates what I've just told him. "Maybe," he eventually agrees with a shrug. "But then again, it's more likely that she died because of a number of factors, all of which were outside of your control. You have to believe me when I tell you that there was nothing you could have done to save her."

"You don't know that," I argue tearfully.

"I read the preliminary autopsy report," McGarrett says, giving me a look that I can't quite make sense of. "Cause of death was exsanguination due to the blunt force trauma sustained to both lower limbs in the crash. Before it was moved, the dashboard was effectively acting as a tourniquet – it slowed the bleeding enough to keep her alive until you guys got there."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask in a whisper.

He doesn't answer right away, but he doesn't really need to. Realization is starting to sink in, leaving me feeling weak and out of sorts, and I slump forwards against the bar, burying my head in my hands. I can't help but sob as my guilt gives way to an overwhelming sense of sheer relief.


	5. Chapter 4 - Part 1

Wow, I can't believe how many people have taken the time to favourite, follow and review. Thank you... It's very much appreciated. :)

Sorry, but this is going to be another two part-er. There is whump to come in the next part, I promise.  
Thank you to the lovely ElizabethWriter, who very kindly offered her services as beta. I've tinkered with this chapter since she checked it over so any mistakes are of my doing.

* * *

I'm awoken from my self-induced post-alcoholic stupor by my roommate, who takes far too much pleasure in whipping the duvet away from where I've pulled it up over my head in an attempt to ease my hangover. Katie flops down on the bed beside me, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

"So, good night last night then?" she asks, her expression slightly too innocent for comfort. Groaning, I press my face into my pillow and try to pull my comforter back over my head but Katie just laughs and pins it down with her elbow.  
"Ah, ah, ah," she sing-songs, "Not until you tell me everything. Starting with who that guy was."

"What are you talking about?"

Confused, I push myself up on one arm and turn to squint at my best friend. My head is so fuzzy, I can barely see straight let alone remember much of what happened last night. Come to think of it, I'm not exactly sure how I got home.

"I'm talking about the guy that brought you home last night," Katie repeats, rolling her eyes at me in exasperation. "Mr. tall, dark and handsome with the eyes and the tattoos?" Her dark eyes are sparkling with curiosity and she props her chin up on her hand before asking, "So, who _is_ he? Did something happen between the two of you?"

I let my head drop into my hands and groan, this time in embarrassment. Katie's interrogation seems to have hit a nerve and I end up muttering, "He's just someone I know from work. Nothing happened; I was drunk and the commander was obviously just being a gentleman by making sure I got home okay."

"The commander as in… Commander McGarrett?" Katie cocks her head to the side. "I thought you couldn't stand the man."

"He apologized."

"And?" Katie motions for me to continue.

"I accepted his apology. We talked."

I wearily rub a hand over my face. Katie doesn't look convinced and I don't really blame her - It's pretty obvious that there's a little more to my story than I'm letting on. I sigh, knowing that Katie isn't going to let it go and force myself to swallow around the lump that has appeared in my throat.

"I was upset about something that had happened at work and Commander McGarrett ended up talking me down from the ledge, so to speak. I was convinced it was my fault that one of my patients didn't make it. The commander made me realize that wasn't the case."

"That's actually kind of sweet," Katie says, giving my arm a gentle squeeze.  
Pushing herself upright, she leans over and smacks my ass, making me squeal in surprise. "Alright. Up and at 'em, Sweeting," she orders, whipping the comforter down to the bottom of my bed. "I start work in an hour and a half and I'm in desperate need of some Loco Moco from that place down by the beach."

Forty minutes later I'm sat on one of the wooden tables outside Kamekona's shrimp truck, pushing the remains of my Loco Moco around my plate with a plastic fork. The shrimp truck is popular with the local emergency services personnel and the tourists who flock to Waikiki for the sun and the beach. It's where Heather and I had lunch on my first day on the job.  
The food is usually to die for but I'm not really feeling it today - the yolk of the egg on top of my hamburger patty has burst and the sight of the congealing yellow goo mixing with the gravy underneath makes my stomach twist sharply. I push my plate away and turn to look at the people wandering along the beach behind me in the early afternoon sun; in the distance I can see a young girl in school uniform holding her father's hand as she walks along the low wall separating the beach from the boardwalk.

Across the table, Katie glances down at her watch and sighs. "I better go," she says, leaning forwards to snag my plate. "Do you want a lift to your car?"

Adjusting my sunglasses, I shake my head. "Thanks, but I think I'll just walk it. I figure the fresh air will do me good."

"Okie dokie." Katie stands and turns to dump our rubbish in the trashcan behind us. "We still on for movie night tonight?" she asks, digging around in her purse for her car keys. She holds them aloft when she finally locates them in the depths of her oversized bag. It's been ages since we had a girly night in and I'm really looking forwards to being able to kick back and relax with my bestie.

"I'll have beer and pizza waiting," I promise.

The boardwalk is crowded despite it being Friday and once Katie has left for work, I lean back against the wooden table and gaze out at the shallow waters just beyond the beach. Turning my face skywards, I close my eyes for a moment and let the warmth of the early afternoon sun soothe the lingering ache in my head. My attention is drawn by high-pitched, care free giggling off to my left and I find myself watching the little girl from earlier shriek with laughter as the man holding her hand suddenly scoops her off the low wall she's been walking along. He throws her over his shoulder as though she's weightless, eliciting laughter-filled cries of 'Uncle Steeeve! Put me down!' as he takes off at a run with her hanging halfway down his back.

It's a joy to watch after spending the last six days up close and personal with enough pain and suffering to last a lifetime, and I smile to myself as the man makes a show out of pretending to drop the young girl before flipping her right-side up and settling her on his hip with ease.  
They're close enough now that I finally recognize the dark hair and combats-and-tee working uniform favored by a certain ex-Navy SEAL. Well, color me surprised…  
There's no way I would have pegged McGarrett as being good with kids; I think it's the combination of the way he holds himself and the laser focus he seems to get when it comes to getting the job done. He comes across as intimidating and unapproachable, but the little girl perched on his hip is grinning as though the commander is the best thing since Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice-cream, so I guess that just goes to show that you should never judge a book by its cover.

I'm so caught up contemplating this strange turn of events that I don't realize I'm openly staring until the commander is standing directly in front of me. Busted… My cheeks flush from the embarrassment of being caught.

"Uh, hi," I stutter, running a hand through my hair in a pathetic attempt to disguise any awkwardness between us. The commander just cocks his head to the side as though he's surprised to see me A, upright and B, looking relatively human; apart from the smug smirk on McGarrett's face and the dark circles hidden behind my oversized sunglasses, there are no obvious clues to suggest that I spent the better part of last night on a mission to drink my bodyweight in Jose Cuervo.

"Hey." McGarrett crouches down and sets the little girl on her feet, and she automatically leans into him, her cheeks still flushed with delight.

"Who's your friend?" I ask, giving the young girl a small wave. She smiles shyly before pressing her face into the commander's side.

"This is Gracie." His hand automatically comes up to cup the girl's face before gently tugging on the braid that's not currently pressed against his hip. "Gracie, this is Chloe."

"Do you work with Danno and Uncle Steve?" Gracie gazes up at me with big curious eyes.

I hesitate. I don't have a clue what – or who? - this 'Danno' is and when I falter, the young girl glances up at the commander, who, thankfully, answers the question for me.

"She sure does," McGarrett says. He pulls his wallet from his pocket and crouches down in front of the young girl. "Hey, what do you say to getting some shave ice while I talk to Chloe for a minute? Tell Kamekona I said 'go wild'."

The young girl eyes me curiously but the promise of shave ice seems to appease her and she shrugs before taking the proffered bill from McGarrett's outstretched hand. "Okay, be right back," she chirps, hopscotching her way over to the large Hawaiian man standing behind the counter of the shrimp truck.

With Gracie gone, there's a slightly awkward silence as Commander McGarrett sits down across from me. So far, I've avoided bringing up the elephant in the room – namely, last night's emotional breakdown and the subsequent tequila binge that resulted in the commander having to save me from myself. I have no idea what happened in between ordering that one last tequila slammer and waking up in my own bed with the hangover from hell, and that scares the living shit out of me.

Now don't get me wrong, McGarrett seems like a stand-up guy and yes, I know that I told Katie nothing happened between us, but if I'm being honest, the truth is that I'm scared to ask incase I did something incredibly stupid in my drunken state. And by that I mean something stupid enough to ruin what was turning out to be a budding friendship. The scenarios currently running through my head include everything from throwing up on his shoes to drunkenly throwing myself at the guy because he just happened the first man to show me an ounce of kindness since Eddie The-Love-Rat Ray broke my heart.

Still, the least I can do is thank him for taking me home. I'm about to open my mouth to do just that when McGarrett turns to look at me across the table.

"How's your head?" he asks, breaking the awkward silence. There's a smile tugging at the corners of his lips and if I didn't know any better, I'd swear the man is actually finding entertainment in my discomfort. I aim for nonchalance.

"I've had worse," I shrug. It's a bald-faced lie; I've never been so hungover in my entire life but he doesn't really need to know that. Even so, I suspect that my flaming-hot cheeks are giving the game away somewhat.

"Right." By now, McGarrett's smile has morphed into a full-on grin. I'm obviously not as good a liar as I thought and I throw my hands up in the air. Fine… If the guy wants honesty, that's exactly what he's gonna get.

"Okay, fine," I say. "My head is killing me. I have a bruise the size of Molokai from where I appear to have fallen over my hairdryer. Said hairdryer is now broken, and, to top it all off, my roommate thinks that something happened between us last night. Which is just ridiculous, right?"

The last few words come out sounding slightly hysterical but at least they're out there. No matter what the reply is, I figure I'll be able to console myself with the knowledge that I did the right thing by asking; if not for my friendship with the commander, then at least for my sanity.

"Nothing happened, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, thank God." I let out the breath I was holding and slump back against the table. I can't even begin to describe the relief I feel when I hear him say those words and I end up confessing, "All morning I've been having these visions about what may or may not have happened last night. I just about had myself convinced that I'd done something really embarrassing."

"Such as falling flat on your face and having to be carried to the car?" McGarrett asks, trying, and failing, to suppress a smile.

"Please tell you're joking." I bury my face in my hands and risk glancing at the commander though splayed fingers. His face creases into a grin and I groan. "Oh, god… I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"If it helps, I don't think anyone actually saw you fall. We were practically at the car when you so elegantly decided to reacquaint yourself with the pavement."

I have to say, his attempt to console me would be a whole lot more believable if he wasn't enjoying this so much. The bastard.

"What's so funny?" Gracie is back and she eyes my crimson cheeks curiously as she spoons bright blue ice into her mouth.

"Nothing, sweetheart," the commander tells her. "We were just talking about something that happened at work. Are you ready to go?"

"Uhuh." She grins, revealing a mouthful of blue-tinged teeth. Her tongue is stained a similar color.

Commander McGarrett chuckles and pushes himself upright. "Okay then. Let's get you home and cleaned up before your dad finds out I let you eat enough sugar to power the island."

Grace waves as the Commander McGarrett ushers her towards the parking lot. They disappear around the back of Kamekona's shrimp truck and it suddenly occurs to me that I never thanked the commander for driving me home last night. I can probably catch up to them if I'm quick so I scoop my bag up off the ground and take off at a run, dodging tables and groups of tourists as I race to catch up.

He's walking around the front of a dark blue Chevrolet pick-up truck when I finally spot him amidst the sea of vehicles in the sprawling lot.

"Hey, McGarrett! Wait up!" I yell, waving my arms in the air like a lunatic. The arm waving seems to do the trick. Grace must already be belted into the back because the commander pauses with one hand on the driver's side door.

I cover the remaining distance between us at a slower pace; what should have been an easy sprint has left me sweaty and breathless so I can only assume that the leftover alcohol in my system is screwing with me - I'm usually more than capable of running the length of myself without feeling like I'm about to have a heart attack.

"I never thanked you for making sure I got home okay," I tell the commander when I can finally draw enough breath to talk. He smiles at me.

"You already thanked me last night." In other words, I ran all the way over here for nothing.

A new-ish Jeep Cherokee pulls up beside us and prepares to back into the empty space behind the commander's Chevvy, and I end up having to shout to be heard over the revving engine.

"Right. Well, uh… Thanks again. I guess I'll see you around."

I step back onto the pavement and silently cringe at the way I appear to have mysteriously transformed back into an awkward teenager. _As if it wasn't bad enough the first time round_, I think, shaking my head in disgust.

What happens next chills me to my very core. I'm almost at the shrimp truck when a child's terrified scream pierces the air.

Gracie's...

I whip round as the black Cherokee suddenly lurches forwards. The subsequent thud of two tons of metal colliding with flesh and bone makes me feel sick to my stomach.


	6. Chapter 4 - Part 2

_Sorry for the delay. _  
_Thanks to ElizabethWriter for her awesome beta skills. I have tinkered since she checked it so any and all mistakes are my own.  
_  
_Part three is still to come..._

* * *

The runaway SUV clips the commander's hip with enough force to send him skidding along the road and he lands in a crumpled heap approximately fifteen feet away. My heart just about leaps out of my chest when I realise he's lying motionless in the middle of the road.

"Uncle Steve!"

Before anyone can stop her, Gracie is out of the car and running. A well-meaning passerby wraps an arm around her waist in an attempt to shield her from the aftermath of the accident, which, needless to say, does not go down well with the young girl. Gracie kicks and wriggles her way out of the man's grasp with a strangled sob.

"No, leave me alone! Uncle _Steve!"_

Ignoring the concerned shouts from the crowd that's gathering on the sidewalk, the young girl drops to her knees beside Commander McGarrett and it just about breaks my heart to hear her pleading with him, and calling his name. I desperately want to wrap my arms around her and tell her that everything is going to be okay.

Off to the side, a concerned member of the public is trying to console the driver of the out-of-control Cherokee, who must be eighty if she's a day. The poor old dear is visibly shaken and keeps glancing over her shoulder at the fallen commander as though she can't quite believe what she's seeing.  
"I don't know what happened," she whispers as the young man gently guides her away from the car, "I thought I put it in reverse."

I start to sprint back towards the parking lot, my bag bumping awkwardly against my leg as I run. For a moment, I seriously consider abandoning the damn thing in the middle of the pavement but then I remember my purse and keys are in it. By the time I reach McGarrett there's an older woman in a Hawaiian-print maxi dress kneeling over his prone form. I drop to me knees beside her, slightly breathless from my full-out sprint along the boardwalk.

"I'm a paramedic."

"I'll get out of your way, dear." The woman scrambles to make room so I can kneel down in the space beside McGarrett's head. "I've already opened his airway and checked his breathing," she explains as I gently run my hands over the commander's body to check for injuries. "My ex-husband was a doctor. My friend is on the phone with 911 – hopefully the ambulance will be here soon."

"Great, thanks." I glance over my shoulder at the young girl hovering behind us, hiccupping softly between sobs and ask, "Could you check on her for me? Her name is Gracie."

"Of course." The woman nods and gently starts to usher Gracie towards the pavement. "Come on, dear," she says kindly, pulling a tissue from her pocket. "Let's get you cleaned up a little bit while the lady checks on your…" She breaks off, unsure.

"He's my uncle. Is he going to be okay?"

"I hope so, sweetheart."

Contrary to her early hysterics, Gracie is surprisingly pliant as she allows to woman to guide her away from the middle of the road. It's probably a mild case of shock, which isn't exactly surprising considering she's just seen her uncle get mowed down by a car. I make a mental note to get her checked out once McGarrett has been taken care of.  
Taking the commander's hand I mine, I press my fingers into the underside of his wrist and start counting. His pulse is strong, if a little fast, and I breathe a sigh of relief when he starts to stir. His eyelashes flutter as he fights his way back to consciousness and he groans before trying to push himself up onto one arm.  
I'm starting to think that this is a typical reaction; it's obviously a habit from back in the day when getting injured meant being a liability. I guess it's still as true today with Five-0 as it was back when he was a SEAL on active duty.  
The commander's movements are sluggish and uncoordinated as he tries to right himself. When I put my hand out to stop him, he squints up at me with bleary, confused eyes.

"Hey, no so fast," I scold mildly. I gently push on his shoulder until he's back lying on his side. It's not exactly the recovery position but it will do until I can figure out what I'm dealing with.  
"You need to stay still just now. Do you remember what happened?"

I get a muttered "Uhuh" in response and then, "Gracie?"

"Don't worry about Gracie just now. She's fine." I reach for his wrist again. "How are you doing? Do you have any pain anywhere?" I ask.

"What? No…" The commander sluggishly tries to pull his arm out of my grasp. His brow furrows and for a second I swear I can see fear in the former SEAL's eyes before he rolls over onto his back and starts to push himself up onto his forearms. "What's going on? Where's Grace?"

Honestly, sometimes I think the man purposely goes around asking for trouble. He's obviously not thinking about the serious consequences his actions could have; call me Debbie Downer but all it would take it one wrong move and the former SEAL could end up spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair.  
I have to bite my tongue to keep from snapping as I put my hands on his shoulders to stop him sitting up.

"There's nothing going on," I say firmly, pushing the commander back down. "Gracie is being taken care of. She's fine – a little shaken and worried about you but physically, she's okay. I'm going to get her checked out by EMS when they get here just in case, though."

"Shit." McGarrett groans and then squeezes his eyes shut. "Danny's going to kill me, " he mutters, bringing a hand up to his head.

"Ah, ah… Don't touch."

I grab his wrist before he can make contact with the bloody scrape on his forehead. It's one of many; the entire right side of the commander's face is scraped to hell thanks to the abrasive surface of the road he's just become rather intimately acquainted with. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that his arm and side-slash-hip are in a similar state, despite having been protected by a layer of clothing.  
My intervention earns me a pain-laced huff of annoyance, which I ignore.

"Right. Now, who's Danny?"

"Williams? You know, small blonde guy, likes to talk…?" The commander flaps a hand dismissively and then winces when the movement pulls on his injured side. "Oww…" he mutters, stilling instantly.

Sighing, I take his wrist and guide his arm down until it's lying across his stomach. Somehow I'm able to resist the temptation to tell him to 'stay' - like a dog.  
I mean, the commander seems like a smart guy but right now, he's being remarkably obtuse. It's almost as though he's forgotten that getting hurt actually… well, _hurts_. God knows he's spent enough time in the Emergency Room to realize that. I don't know, maybe I'm being a little unfair? The guy's probably concussed and not thinking straight.

"Why would Detective Williams be mad at you? It was an accident – it's not like any of this way your fault," I say as the wail of approaching sirens finally breaks through the low hum of the early-afternoon traffic. It's about time; it feels like I've been kneeling here for hours and my knees are being rather vocal in making the displeasure known. I hate to think how much pain the commander must be in.  
McGarrett pulls a face and shifts in discomfort before replying. While I can't blame him for moving, I can't help but frown at him disapprovingly. He huffs in frustration but stills. Chloe, one. Seriously spinal injury, nil.

"Danny can be a little overprotective. I guess it's understandable," he says with a grimace. "I mean, he moved all the way out here to be with Gracie and his ex-wife hasn't exactly – "

"Gracie is Detective Williams' daughter?"

"Well, yeah…" The commander looks up at me as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.

To be fair, it _is_ kind of obvious now that I think about it. In fact, I don't why I didn't put two and two together sooner. It's as if last night's booze binge has cause my IQ to suddenly drop 20 points overnight.  
It's pretty common knowledge around the island that McGarrett and Williams are a package deal so little Gracie referring to Commander McGarrett as 'Uncle Steve' kind of makes sense. It's actually kind of sweet that the two of them have come to think of each other as family, or 'Ohana', as the locals call it.  
I can only hope that, someday, Heather and I become that close.

In the last thirty seconds or so, the volume of the approaching sirens has increased from barely audible to ear-splitting. I glance over my shoulder as flashing blue lights appear in the distance.  
"Paramedics are here," I say, giving McGarrett's hand a reassuring squeeze. Pushing myself up onto my feet, I brace myself and swivel round to face the approaching bus. The strobing lights blur and split into two as they come back into focus and it's only then that I realize there's a marked police car pulling into the parking lot behind the ambulance.

"And so is HPD."

"What?" The commander's eyes grow wide and he shifts as though he's getting ready to make another attempt to sit up.

"Don't even think about it." Honestly, the guy just doesn't know when to quit. I mean, he even has the gall to complain about not being allowed to move.

"I don't understand why you won't let me sit up," he mutters, grimacing. "I'm fine. I don't need to go to the hospital.

"Yes, you do. Look, I know your partner calls you 'Super Seal' but that doesn't mean you're _actually_ invincible. You were hit by a car and knocked out so you need to get checked."

The commander rolls his eyes at the 'super seal' reference but I may as well have been speaking Chinese for all the good my spiel does. I should have known that, injured or not, Steve McGarrett is apparently physically incapable of backing down without a fight.  
"The car was barely moving," he argues. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear the man actually pouts as he adds, "And I wasn't knocked out. I just… got my bell rung a little bit. I'm _fine."_

Yeah, okay... And denial ain't just a river in Egypt…

"If you won't do it for yourself, then maybe you'll do it for Gracie. You owe it to that little girl to get yourself checked out."

It's a low blow and I feel a little mean using Gracie against the commander but the little girl's terrified screams are still echoing in my ears. If I'm honest, I'm waiting for him to bite my head of for even suggesting he go to the ER because it didn't exactly go down well the last time I recommended it.  
The commander's expression darkens, as I suspected it would. The look on his face reminds me of that first awkward encounter in that parking lot in Kalihi-Palama. It definitely wasn't my finest moment and it's not something I care to repeat anytime in the near future.  
'New Chloe' is about to make an appearance when the woman I entrusted with Gracie's care starts to makes her way back out into the road. She stops beside me and hesitates for a moment before glancing down at a tearful Gracie with a guilty look on her face.

"I hate to do this to you, dear, but I have to go," she says. "My friend and I are heading home tonight and we need to get a move on if we're going to make it to the airport on time."

"Of course. Thanks for your help – I really appreciate it." I scramble to my feet and hold my hand out to Gracie, who's still looking slightly shell-shocked.  
"Come here, sweetheart."  
I pull her into my arms as the ambulance pulls in behind the abandoned Jeep Cherokee. The sirens are silenced and then two-man crew jump out. One of them heads round to the back of the rig to pull their kit bags and an oxygen canister from the lockers while the other crouches down at the commander's side.

"Hey, guys." The medic is young and blonde, and his body language screams 'surfer dude' as he casually pulls a pair of purple latex gloves from the pocket of his cargos. "So what's been happening?" he asks, pen poised over the back of his gloved hand as he looks between the commander and myself expectantly.

"This is Commander McGarrett," I say – because let's be honest, Detective Williams was right when he said his partner can't be trusted to tell the truth about his injuries. "About twelve minutes ago, he was hit by a car travelling approximately ten-to-fifteen miles an hour and the impact threw him around fifteen feet. He lost consciousness for approximately two minutes but he's currently alert and responsive. Pulse is 68, resps 17."

"Alright-y." Surfer Medic jots the numbers down as his partner, a woman with long dark hair scraped back into a messy bun, sets the bulging green backpack down next to him. He pulls the pressure cuff from the bag and wraps it around the commander's bicep.  
"Any pain anywhere?" he asks, hooking the cuff up to a portable monitor.

"My hip," McGarrett admits, grudgingly submitting to Surfer Medic's ministrations. His honesty is, no doubt, spurred on by the pointed look I throw him when the paramedics' backs are turned but at least it's a step in the right direction. Unfortunately, he ruins any premise by adding, "But it's not that bad." And then, "I really need to sit up." He winces and shifts uncomfortably, subconsciously emphasizing how unreasonable we're being by forcing him to lie flat.

I roll my eyes but Surfer Medic doesn't appear the least bit bothered by his patient's dogged insistence.  
"Okay, sure," he agrees easily, slipping a pulse-ox clip onto McGarrett's index finger. "I need to do a few more tests first. If they're all okay then we can see about moving you. Any pain in your neck or back?"

McGarrett sighs noisily. "No," he mutters. He sounds thoroughly hacked off and while I can sympathize – my knees are hurting just from kneeling on the concrete – I can't help but wonder what it's going to take to get through to this guy. He just doesn't seem to understand the implications of being allowed to move should he have a spinal or internal injury.

"Can you move your toes?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good." Surfer Medic nods, satisfied, and pulls his penlight from the leg pocket of his navy uniform cargos. "We're nearly done. I just need to check your pupils. Look straight ahead for me."

While he's shining his penlight in Commander McGarrett's eyes, I take the opportunity to sneak a look at the numbers flashing up on the monitor screen. The commander may be acting as though getting hit by a car is no big deal but his body is telling me otherwise; his pulse and blood pressure are both a little on the high side, both of which can be attributed to the stress of being involved in an accident, and there's a subtle shake to his hands that I didn't notice previously. Whether the tremors are the physical manifestation of shock or fear, I'm not a hundred percent sure, but either way it's kind of reassuring to know that, despite his training and the shockingly blatant disregard he shows for his own safety, Steven 'Super Seal' McGarrett is human. Just like the rest of us.

While it's nice to know that the commander isn't the emotionless robot everyone thinks he is, it's a little unnerving to see such a strong, capable man look so vulnerable. Glancing down at his trembling hands, I feel a sudden – and overwhelming – urge to hug him. I think it's something to do with the unexpected display or emotion; the commander usually comes across as a force to be reckoned with. I mean, I've watched the man tackle a knife-wielding murdered without so much as breaking a sweat so seeing him like this just doesn't sit right with me.  
Call me naïve but if I had my way, no-one would ever be made to feel like this.

The two paramedics step off to the side to discuss a plan of action and I take the opportunity to steer Gracie round to McGarrett's other side. She kneels down and grabs her uncle's hand, grasping it so tightly that the skin beneath her fingers blanches.  
The commander doesn't seem to notice the vice-like grip as he twists and reaches up to wipe a stray tear from the young girl's cheek with his free hand. I should probably remind him that he's supposed to stay still until the paramedics say its ok to move but Gracie is in desperate need of a little bit of reassurance and I suspect the commander is the only one who'll be able to give it to her. I'd feel more than a little mean reprimanding him for comforting a child so instead of chastising him, I crouch down and ask, "How are you holding up?"

"I'm okay."

It's directed more towards Gracie than myself. I suppose I should be thankful that he's still talking to me after the whole threatening him with Gracie to make him go to the hospital thing. I couldn't care less if he's pissed at me; at the end of the day, I have a duty of care towards him _and _towards Gracie, and, right now, little Gracie's needs take precedence over the commander's wounded pride. Hopefully he'll forgive me.  
Gracie is, understandable, rather reluctant to move from her uncle's side when the paramedics return with stretcher in tow. I have to physically pry her fingers from the commander's hand as both mine and McGarrett's reassurances fall on deaf ears. I feel a little guilty about having to manhandle her but eventually we manage to convince her to loosen her grip on her uncle and she lets me usher her to one side.

"Are you ready to try sitting up?" Surfer Medic asks McGarrett as he removes the pressure cuff. "We're going to take it slow. If something doesn't feel right or you feel any pain, you need to let us know."

McGarrett waits for the blond medic to unclip the pulse-ox monitor from his finger before gingerly pushing himself up onto his forearms. From there, he accepts Surfer Medic's hand and allows the younger man to pull him up. He grimaces when the movement pulls on his side but overall, he looks relieve to finally be sitting upright.

"How does that feel?" the female medic asks, manually re-checking her patient's pulse. "Any dizziness?"

McGarrett shakes his head. "No."

"Good." She nods, satisfied. "So here's what's going to happen next; we're going to get you up. Let us do all of the work – all you need to do is lock your good knee once you're upright. Then we'll get you onto the stretcher and head over the Kings to get you checked out. Okay?"  
She hops over McGarrett's legs and leans down to hook her arm under her patient's elbow while her partner wraps his fingers around the commander's wrist.

"On three," Surfer Medic instructs. He adjusts his grip and the commander braces himself as the two paramedics prepare to pull him upright. "One, two, three…"


	7. Chapter 4 - Part 3

Sorry for the delay. Thanks to my beta, ElizabethWriter. I've tinkered with it since so, as always, any mistakes are mine and mine alone.  
I hope it lives up to all of your expectations. :)

* * *

Between them, the two paramedics haul McGarrett to his feet and take his weight until he's balanced on his good leg. The commander's face is a little on the pale side now that he's upright and he ducks his head, as though he's been hit by a wave of vertigo.  
"Dizzy?"  
The dark-haired medic hooks her fingers through the commander's belt loops just in case while Surfer Dude quickly pulls the gurney closer. The last thing they need is for Commander McGarrett to fall and injure himself further, especially as the crowd that's gathering on the sidewalk is watching the proceedings like a hawk watches its prey.

"A little." McGarrett blinks a few times and then gives himself a shake before lifting his head. "It's going away, though."

"Okay, take your time," the woman says. Nodding to her partner, she waits for him to take McGarrett's weight before ducking out from under the commander's arm. Locking the wheels on the stretcher, she continues, "When you're ready, we're going to help you up onto the stretcher. Again, let us do the work."

"I can do it." He ignores the dark-haired girl's offered hand and attempts to walk the three steps separating him from the stretcher in an unnecessary display of stubbornness. Unfortunately for the commander, it doesn't quite go to plan; his right leg refuses to take his weight and the only thing that saves him from getting up close and personal with the tarmac for a second time is the tight hold Surfer Medic has on the back of his cargo pants. He hisses in pain and stumbles slightly as he attempts to steady himself on his good leg. Breathing hard, he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Shit."

It's just loud enough that Gracie hears the muttered curse and I wince when the little girl's red-rimmed eyes widen in shock. She tugs on my shorts until I crouch down beside her, her expression a strange mixture of disapproval and shocked amusement, and, for a moment, I'm worried that McGarrett's latest stunt has tipped the young girl over the edge; the last thing she needs is for the adults in charge of her – i.e., McGarrett – to add to the trauma of the situation. Fortunately for me, that's not the case. Gracie motions for me to come closer and then cups a hand in front of my ear.

"Uncle Steve has to put a quarter in the swear jar," she whispers. "When Step-Stan says a bad word in front of me and Charlie, Mom makes him put in a dollar."

I'm guessing that McGarrett usually has the willpower of a saint when it comes to not swearing in front of young, impressionable children. I have to fight the smile that's threatening to split my face in two as I diplomatically suggest, "Maybe we could let him off just this once? I think his hip is really hurting."

If I'm honest, I'm not sure McGarrett really deserves to be let off of paying his fine. However, it's up to both him and I, as the so-called 'adults' here, to set a good example for Detective Williams' daughter so I hold back from telling the young girl exactly what I think of her beloved uncle's actions. My mother would be so proud.  
The young girl glances over her shoulder at the pained expression on her uncle's face before hesitantly conceding; "I guess it would be okay to pretend I didn't hear Uncle Steve say the bad word just this once. Because he got hurt." She still looks a little unsure about the whole thing; I guess turning a blind eye to her uncle's questionable choice of language still counts as lying in her eight-year-old mind.

"I think it would be okay, too," I assure her with a smile and a wink. "I won't tell if you don't."

Gracie twists a finger around one of her braids as we watch the dark-haired woman chivvy McGarrett onto the stretcher. The medic looks rather unimpressed at the commander's actions and it comes across in the pointed look she aims in his direction once she's got him seated sideways on the narrow bed. He at least has the decency to look semi-sheepish, which is more than I got.

"Is Uncle Steve really going to be okay?" Gracie asks. She sounds younger than her tender eight years as she watches Surfer Medic take over and push McGarrett back against the raised head of the stretcher.

"He's going to be just fine." I reach out to take the young girl's hand in mine and give it a reassuring squeeze before joking, "He'll be back to terrorizing the island in no time, just you wait and see."

Grace giggles. "Danno says Uncle Steve needs professional help." Well, what can I say to that? He's obviously a smart man, that Danno.

Realizing that the paramedics are lowering the ambulance's ramp, I gently start to nudge Gracie towards the rig. No one has said anything to suggest otherwise so I assume she'll be going to the hospital with McGarrett until someone can get hold of her dad.  
One of the uniformed HPD officers has wandered away from the abandoned Cherokee and is standing talking to McGarrett, who's been belted onto the narrow stretcher – no doubt so he'll be deterred from doing something stupid, like try to walk on a suspected broken leg. I recognize Sargent Duke Lukela's slight build and thinning grey hair from the accident scene Heather and I attended the other day once Gracie and I are a bit closer. He doesn't remember me but his expression changes when he spots Detective Williams' daughter. Turning back to the commander with a stricken look on his face, the Sargent asks, "Has anybody contacted Danny?"

"He's in court," McGarrett replies.

So no, then. Maybe it's a good thing; if what the commander has told me is true, I'm guessing that Detective Williams would be perfectly willing to risk being found in contempt of court over this whole thing the second he heard the words 'Grace' and 'car accident' in the same sentence.

"He needs to know what's going on," Lukela chides.

"I know he does," McGarrett agrees. Sighing, he leans back against the head of the stretcher. "We've been waiting over a year for this case to go to trial," he mutters, rubbing a weary hand over his face. He looks conflicted and I feel for the guy, I really do. Heather filled me in so I know all about McGarrett's - as yet unfulfilled – mission to bring his father's murderer to justice. It must be difficult knowing that he has to deliberately keep his partner in the dark until he's done testifying or run the risk of the judge dismissing the charges against their suspect.  
After a tense few moments of head-versus-heart deliberation, the commander glances at his watch and decides, "Send an officer to the courthouse but have them wait until the judge breaks for the afternoon before they say anything to Danny. If he bitches about it, tell him it was my decision."

"I'll get it on right away," Lukela assures the commander, giving the younger man's shoulder a consoling pat. "Maybe the judge will see fit to grant a continuance," he adds before turning to head back to his marked patrol car.

"I doubt it," McGarrett grumbles. "Hey, Duke?"

The Sargent looks back as the dark-haired medic steps forwards and starts to unlock the wheels on the stretcher. Keeping his voice low, the commander asks, "Could you check to make sure my service weapon is secure? I put it in the glove box but I'm not sure if I locked it in there."  
Well, would you look at that? Turns out Super Seal isn't immune to concussions, after all.

"Sure, Steve." Lukela holds out his hand for the car key, which the commander duly fishes out of his pocket with a barely-concealed wince. "I'll take it to HQ and have the Desk Sargent lock it in the safe," the older man says as he hooks McGarrett's keys onto the D-shaped carabiner clip that's attached to his utility belt. "You can pick it up in the morning."

With that, he heads off to retrieve the commander's weapon, and the medic pushes McGarrett up the ramp and into the back of the rig. Gracie's grip on my hand tightens as we follow the stretcher towards the waiting ambulance.

"Go ahead, sweetie," I say, giving her a gentle nudge when she falters at the bottom of the ramp. "The lady will tell you where to sit. It's important that you listen to any instructions she gives you, okay?"

Gracie nods but her grip on my hand doesn't change. She glances up at where her uncle is being treated before turning back to me with these big pleading Bambi eyes that threaten to reduce me to a puddle of goo in a matter of seconds. It's pretty obvious from the young girl's expression that she's still scared shitless and part of me is wondering if I should offer to keep her company until her father can pick her up; I had planned on spending the afternoon on the couch watching car-crash TV - ironic, huh? - but I know that there's a good chance Gracie will be palmed off on a nurse or an orderly while McGarrett is being seen to. Having a familiar face – however new - there would probably be a small comfort to the frightened young girl. On the other hand, it might piss a certain ex-Navy SEAL off even more than using said child to blackmail him into going to the hospital…

Okay, I have approximately five seconds to make a decision. I can keep Gracie company and risk incurring the wrath of a man who could very easily make my working life a living hell or send a frightened child off to the hospital alone so as not to annoy her gun-toting former Navy SEAL uncle, the latter of which will probably result in the Dark Lord reserving a special place in hell just for me. Hmm, decisions…

Ah, screw it. Crouching down I take both of the young girl's noticeably clammy palms in mine and look into those big brown puppy-dog eyes.  
"How about I come with you?" I suggest. "I can keep you company until we find out what's going on with your uncle's hip or someone gets hold of your dad. How does that sound?"  
Gracie looks relieved and she offers me a small grateful smile.  
"Okay, then." I push myself upright. "Let's go see where the lady wants us to sit."

When we arrive at King's Medical Centre I hop down from the passenger seat and follow Surfer Medic round to the back of the rig where he opens the door and lowers the ramp before helping Gracie jump down onto the curb. I take the young girl's hand as McGarrett is wheeled down the ramp and through the automatic doors into the emergency department. She's forced to break into a run in order to keep up as we follow the two medics, who navigate the warren of identical white corridors with an ease I'm yet to acquire. Our motley crew grinds to a halt in front of a set of swinging doors that open automatically when Surfer Medic keys in the access code and then a motherly looking middle-aged nurse in hot pink scrubs directs us to a treatment bay in the middle of the long row lining the back wall.

"Are you staying?" the nurse asks, turning to Gracie and I as the two medics push the stretcher close to the bed and lock the wheels.

"Yes, they are," the commander answers for us. I'm a little surprised – if I were the commander, the last thing I'd want is an audience, much less one that consisted of a child and a near stranger – but far be it for me to question a direct order. I usher Gracie into the crowded cubicle as the nurse moves to pull the ugly green privacy curtain across the opening behind us and we squash ourselves into the corner out of everyone's way as they prepare to move the commander from the stretcher to the bed.

"I can do it," McGarrett grouches - much to the nurse's amusement - as he swings his legs over the side of the gurney. The fact that he's moving about as nimbly as a ninety-year-old in need of a hip replacement does nothing to persuade us he can.

"I don't doubt that," the nurse soothes as she takes his arm to help him down from the gurney. Before the commander can protest, she has him perched on the bed and is pushing him back against the paper-covered mattress. I'm impressed with how she handled that – I could do with learning how to tame the beast that is an injured former Navy SEAL. I have a feeling it might come in handy.

Once McGarrett's settled, the nurse turns to the paramedics for the handover and two minutes later Surfer Medic and his dark-haired partner disappear through the ugly green curtain, taking their stretcher with them.

"Do you mind if we borrow that?" I point to the stool I've spotted under the counter that runs the length of wall behind me. I figure that Gracie might as well sit down while we wait to find out what's going on with McGarrett's hip. We'll probably be here for a while.

"Sure, honey." The nurse pulls the seat out from under the counter and I set it down in the corner out of the way.

"Come and sit down, sweetie." I steer Gracie towards the seat as the nurse rolls a portable monitor over to the bed.

"My name is Patty and I'll be helping take care of you today. I'm just going to do some obs," she explains as she wraps a blood pressure cuff around her patient's bicep and slips a pulse-ox clip onto his index finger.  
"May I?" Patty pulls a thermometer from its case and pops a disposable cover over the probe as McGarrett grudgingly tilts his head in response. When the thermometer beeps, she glances at the screen and gives the commander's arm a pat before removing the pressure cuff from around his bicep. "Okay, you're all set. The doctor will be in shortly."

Shortly turns out to be almost an hour and a half later. As soon as it became obvious that the doctor wasn't going to be appearing anytime soon, Gracie slipped off the stool and deposited herself on the bed next to her uncle, leaving me to plonk myself down on the now vacant stool and start working my way through the 'Cool Facts' app Katie randomly downloaded onto my phone at some point. I'm familiarizing myself with the average number of sesame seeds on top of a McDonald's Big Mac bun when the privacy curtain twitches and the doctor, a tiny Hawaiian woman in blue scrubs, brushes through it into the cubicle.

"Commander McGarrett?" she asks, peering over the top of her glasses at the clipboard she's holding. When her patient nods she mutters, "Good, good," and then deposits the clipboard on the counter. "Now, young lady," she says to Gracie, "Could I ask you to pop yourself down from there, please?"

You know how kids randomly decide that they like you? Well, that's pretty much what happens next.  
Gracie obediently slides down off the bed. Making her way round to where I'm sitting, she surprises me by hopping up onto my knee, where she wriggles until she finds a comfortable spot. I'm not quite sure what to do as the young girl leans back against my shoulder with a contented sigh. I kind of wish she'd thought to ask before turning me into her personal pillow but I suppose it could be worse - she could be screaming or refusing to let her uncle out of her sight instead of being all cute and cuddly.  
McGarrett and the doctor have the same 'oh, how adorable' look on their faces when I look up and there's a softness in the commander's blue eyes when he meets my gaze. The smile he offers me makes me question pretty much every negative feeling I've ever had about the man. It's scary how one – admittedly gorgeous - smile can cancel out even the most abrasive of personalities. I'm obviously a lot more shallow than I'd like to admit.  
Once Gracie is settled the doctor introduces herself and gets down to business, pulling a penlight from the pocket of her scrubs top.

"Look straight ahead for me," she instructs, shining the light in McGarrett's eyes. "And follow my finger. Any dizziness or blurred vision?"

"No."

"Can you tell me your full name and date of birth?"

"Steve McGarrett, March ten, nineteen seventy-seven."

"Good. Lift your shirt up for me, please."

She tuts when the bloodied t-shirt is lifted to reveal an extensive area of road rash that goes from mid-way up his ribcage to - I'm assuming – about halfway down his thigh. The angry red patches follow the contours of the former SEAL's ribs and skim over the ridge of his hipbone before disappearing beneath the waistband of his cargos but, even bloodied and bruised, McGarrett's body is a sight to behold; he's pure muscle, all hard lines and sharp angles. I can understand why women fawn over him (It's definitely a sight I could get used to).  
The doc presses down on the commander's abdomen. Starting in the upper quadrant, she slides her hands from right to left, and then repeats the motions as she works her way down towards the commander's pelvis. McGarrett sucks in a sharp breath when she presses down just inside his right hipbone.

"Sorry. That's obviously a little tender, huh?" She pauses for a moment to let her patient compose himself and then moves her hands towards the center of his pelvis. "Does the pain get any worse when I press here?"

McGarrett winces but then shakes his head. "It's about the same," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. The doctor nods and then excuses herself before turning to flip through the EMT notes that have been attached to the commander's chart.

"It says here that you're unable to put any weight on your right leg. Is that right?" She looks over the top of her glasses at McGarrett, who sighs and then nods. "Okay. Based on my examination and the paramedics' notes, I suspect there may be a fracture." Pulling a pair of blue latex gloves from the box on the counter, she continues, "I need to do a quick exam to check for internal bleeding and then we'll get you over to Imaging for a CT scan."

When she bends down to pull a gown from one of the cupboards, I take it as a cue for Gracie and I to make ourselves scarce. Whatever the 'quick exam' entails, it obviously requires some state of undress and that means a little privacy is in order.

"Come on," I say, chivvying Gracie off my knee. "Let's go see if we can find a vending machine or something." Swinging my bag up onto my shoulder, I take Gracie's hand and lead her out into the corridor. We follow the signs for the exit and eventually end up in the crowded ER waiting room. There's a vending machine in the corner, across from the reception desk slash nurse's station, and I let go of Gracie's hand to fish my purse from the cavernous depths of my tote bag as we make a bee-line towards it.

"Do you want anything?" I ask, feeding a dollar into the slot. "There's water, orange juice or soda, or we could see what they have in the gift shop."

"Do you think they'll have M&amp;Ms?" Gracie asks hopefully as she pulls a handful of coins from her pocket. "Uncle Steve always gets them for when I stay over at his house. We share them but he saves his blue ones for me because blue is my favorite color."

I didn't think it was even possible for a big bad Navy SEAL to be so firmly wrapped around the finger of an eight-year-old girl, but now that I think about it… Is that cute, or what? I end up making an 'oh, how adorable' face of my own just imagining the commander carefully picking all of the blue M&amp;Ms out of the packet – not because the blue ones taste different, but because his partner's little girl just happens to like that color best.

**H50*H50*H50*H50**

"Knock, knock."

I hesitantly peer through the gap in the privacy curtain just in case my little detour via the hospital gift shop wasn't quite long enough. The cubicle is empty except for Nurse Patty. McGarrett must be off getting his CT scan. Patty looks up from her paperwork as I usher Gracie back into the cubicle and settle myself back onto the stool in the corner. Gracie offers the older woman a shy smile and then settles herself back on my knee. Now that I know what to expect, the warmth of the young girl's weight is strangely comforting the second time around. Instead of freaking out, I pull McGarrett's niece further up onto my lap and settle in to wait for the commander. Nurse Patty has the same look on her face that McGarrett had the first time Gracie decided to put me to work as her personal pillow. I can practically hear the older woman melting as Gracie snuggles in.

Commander McGarrett is wheeled back into the cubicle about twenty minutes later. He looks rather tee'd off and I keep my eyes on the tiled floor beneath my feet as the orderly guides the commander's gurney back into place in the middle of the small room, and then uses his heel to lock the wheels. I wonder what's got him so riled up?  
Leaning back against his pillows, the commander sighs and runs a hand through his hair as the orderly and Nurse Patty both leave the room. The motion leaves his short dark locks standing in an array of messy spikes and I'm hit by the sudden urge to lean over and smooth it back down. Obviously I don't; Gracie is rather conveniently anchoring me to my seat and I don't think McGarrett would appreciate being mothered. Besides, it would be a little weird if I suddenly got all touchy-feely with the guy given the love-hate (or should that be like-hate?) thing we've sort of got going on. It's sort of like a twisted version of 'Ten Things I Hate About You' except that I'm more of a Bianca than a Kat.

"Hello again." The doctor brushes through the curtain and uses the computer on the counter to pull up the images from the commander's CT scan. She studies them intently, peering at the computer monitor over the tops of her glasses. A faint grey line on one of the scans has her humming and hawing for several minutes but eventually she turns to her patient with a smile on her face.  
"Well, it looks like you've been extremely lucky this time, Commander," she says, removing her glasses. "I don't see a fracture or any other cause for concern but I think it's fair to say that you'll be sore for a couple of days."

Well, that's a relief. A day or so off his feet and McGarrett will be back to his usual trigger-happy self. I'm sure Five-0 will manage without him for a few days. Assuming he lasts that long, that is; I suspect the commander is the kind of guy who picks and chooses which bits of the doctors' advice to follow.

Speaking of doctors… She's currently examining the painful-looking road rash on the commander's arm. It runs from about mid-way up his triceps, over his elbow and right down his forearm to the knob of his wrist but it's his upper arm that appears to have taken the brunt. The large oriental tattoo across his bicep is missing several layers of blue-green skin and the surrounding area looks hot and swollen. Red raw is probably the best way to describe it.

"There doesn't appear to be any debris in here but we'll give it a good clean just to be sure," the doctor says. "Are you up to date with your Tetanus?"

Silence follows. I mean, really… You'd think someone who gets injured as often as the commander does would know when his last Tetanus shot was or at least have it written down somewhere handy.

"We'll give you a booster," the doctor decides. "I'll prescribe you an antibiotic cream for the abrasions and some painkillers for your hip. Do you need anything for the pain just now?"

"I'm good, thanks." McGarrett shakes his head and then offers the doctor a tired smile as she gathers her clipboard from the counter.

"Sorry to interrupt." A nurse pops her head around the privacy curtain. "Commander McGarrett? There's someone here to see you." She pulls the curtain back to reveal Detective Williams. He doesn't look happy. In fact, I can see the vein in his forehead throbbing from here. The doctor must notice it too, because she quickly excuses herself and pulls the curtain shut behind her.

"Danno!" Gracie jumps down off my lap to hug her father, who gathers her in his arms and squeezes her tight as though he can't quite believe she's all right.

"Grace!" Williams cups the young girl's face with both hands. "Are you okay, Monkey?" he asks as he searches his daughter's face for any signs of injury. Gracie nods but then her face crumples and she flings herself into the detective's arms, and buries her face in his shirt. She's obviously feeling a little overwhelmed. Bless her.

Commander McGarrett wearily rubs a hand over his face as he watches the detective pick up his sobbing daughter and then prop her on his hip. "Danny," he starts, pushing himself further up the bed. "I – "

"Don't, Steven." Detective Williams spins on his heel to glare at his partner. He looks like he's about two seconds away from exploding until he gets a good look at his partner's face and then, his expression softens once he's taken in the extent of the damage. "You okay?" he asks, gesturing towards bloody scrapes on the commander's arm.

"I'm fine. It's just a bit of road rash," McGarrett tells him. And a bruised hip. And let's not forget about the concussion; the doctor hasn't said anything yet but I'm guessing it will only be a matter of time before the words 'observation' and 'overnight' get mentioned.  
"How did it go in court?" the commander asks, quickly pushing his partner's concern to one side. "Did they ask you about the takedown?" Hmm... Judging by the look on the blond detective's face, that wasn't a good move. He doesn't look like he's about to punch something but he's not exactly happy, either.

"I'm sure they would have loved to," Williams replies rather scathingly, bumping Gracie further up on his hip. "Except I had to leave before they got a chance to ask more than my name and rank because my Neanderthal partner decided to play chicken with a four-thousand pound hunk of metal."  
The commander ignores the 'Neanderthal' jibe and leans back against the head of the stretcher. "Please tell me you didn't walk out of court," he groans, rubbing a hand up over his face. Williams holds a hand up in a '_please_' gesture.

"No, moron, I didn't. Some of us actually know how to conduct ourselves in public." Resting against the counter, the detective continues, "No, Duke called the governor, the governor called the judge's personal assistant – they're golfing buddies, apparently. Anyways, the judge decided to reconvene first thing Monday; Chin's going to set up a video-link so I can testify from office."

Well, thank God for Duke Lukela. His quick thinking means that Oahu's favorite law-enforcement duo will live to fight another day. Who knows what would have happened if the Sargent hadn't intervened. A trial separation? _Divorce_? All joking aside, the Sargent's mediation on Commander McGarrett's behalf means that the person on trial will still be held accountable for their actions. His or her victim will get the justice they deserve.

The commander sags against the bed and lets out a relieved-sounding sigh. "Thanks, Duke. I owe you one," he mutters just loud enough for me to hear.

"You owe him more than one, babe," Williams says. Tilting his head to check on his daughter, he smiles when he sees that Gracie is moments from falling sleep. "So what's the deal?" he asks, throwing a curious glance in my direction before he gently draws a stray strand of hair away from his daughter's face. It gets tucked behind her ear and then Williams' full attention is on me. I feel like I'm standing up a high-powered spotlight.

"Uh, hi…" I give him a small wave in lieu of shaking his free hand, which is rubbing soothing circles over Gracie's back. "I'm Chloe."

The theme tune from the Alfred Hitchcock movie 'Psycho' emanating from within the confines of his trouser pocket prevents the detective from continuing. Charming. I wonder what the caller has done to deserve that ring tone?

"It's Rachel," Williams sighs, checking the caller ID. He quickly silences the ringer so it doesn't wake Gracie. "I better take this."

McGarrett makes a 'gimme' motion in Gracie's direction. "Give me her. "

"Uh, yeah. Thanks…" Williams deposits his sleeping daughter onto the bed beside the commander and then points a warning finger at his partner's chest. "Behave yourself, Super Seal," he says before ducking through the privacy curtain, phone pressed to his ear.

Behave yourself… Funny.

A few minutes pass. Gracie mumbles something in her sleep and turns to snuggle into McGarrett's side. The commander lets out a strangled-sounding groan when the young girl flings an arm around his middle and her fist connects with tender flesh.

"Are you okay?" I push up off my seat and make my way over to the commander's side as he takes a deep breath and then runs a shaky hand over his face. "Do you want me to take her?

"No," he says absently as he gently moves Gracie's arm. "I'm good. You should go," he adds, giving me a tired half smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You've already wasted enough of your day off."

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" I ask. I feel like he's trying to convince himself, rather than me. "I don't mind."

"Yeah." The commander clears his throat. "Go."

"Okay." On a whim, I lean down and hug him. He stiffens when I wrap my arms around his neck but eventually he relaxes into my embrace and I feel the warmth of his hand on my back. "Take care of yourself, Commander," I mumble when I finally release him.

"Chloe, wait..." McGarrett grabs hold of my wrist as I turn to leave. His blue eyes bore into my own with an intensity that I haven't felt since the night I met Eddie Ray. "Thank you," he says, giving me one of those half smiles that threatens to reduce me to a puddle of goo. "And it's Steve."


	8. Chapter 5

Thanks to my beta, Elizabethwriter, for the gentle nudges when I couldn't see the light for the trees.

* * *

My days off go by far too quickly. After Commander McGarrett – _Steve -_ kicked me out, I took a cab to the ambulance depot and picked up the rusting old banger I bought the same day I moved here. True to my word, I had pizza and a six-pack of Longboards waiting when Katie walked in the door a little after 8pm, and we spent our girl's night watching weepy romances and trashy chick flicks (The Notebook, John Tucker Must Die… The classics.) whilst lamenting the severe shortage of available men on the island. Available, good-looking and unlikely to run off with another woman – we weren't looking for much, really.

Of course, Katie took great pleasure in grilling me about my latest close encounter of the SEAL variety and her brow furrowed as she contemplated the most recent twist in the Chloe vs. Steve McGarrett saga.  
"He told you to call him Steve?" She asked, helping herself to another slice of Ham with extra Pineapple. She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Well, you know what that means…"  
"It doesn't matter what it means," I told her, taking a long draw from my Longboard. "He has a girlfriend." According to Google, anyways. The picture showed a pretty brunette with long hair that curled just as it hit her shoulders.  
"Typical," my friend muttered. "You finally meet a decent guy and he's already taken."

I go back to work on a rainy Wednesday morning. Heather is already sitting at one of the tables with a cup of coffee when I walk into the break room, trying - and failing - to wring what feels like half of the pacific from my hair and my clothes. I really need to buy an umbrella for the days when I have to leave my car in the parking structure across the street; two minutes outside and I look like a drowned rat. It's not pretty.

"Morning." Heather smiles at me over the rim of her steaming mug as I finally admit defeat and twist my wet hair into a messy bun. "We didn't manage to scare you off, then?"  
"Nope." I shake my head, pull out the chair opposite her and sit down. "Sorry, but you're stuck with me for the foreseeable future."  
It's going to take more than losing a patient to scare me off now that I've had a few days to come to terms with what happened to Sadie's mom. I've come to realize that it's not possible to save everyone, no matter how much we want to. It doesn't matter how hard we try, either. Life sucks, sometimes.

"Good girl." Heather gives my shoulder a squeeze on her way to dump her coffee dregs down the sink. Her hand must come away wet because she pulls a face and hastily reaches for the dishtowel that's draped over the back of an unoccupied chair.  
"Sorry," I mutter, peeling my damp uniform shirt away from my equally damp skin. "I haven't gotten round to putting a spare in my locker just yet."  
I really should get on that ASAP because the thought of being forced to wear clothes soiled with body fluids – blood, vomit, _urine_ \- is enough to make even the strongest stomach twist. Just… yuck. I'd rather go to a scene wearing just my bra. I'm probably not going to have a choice if I don't get on top of things soon.

"You need to get that sorted out." Heather echoes my thoughts as we make our way to the garage to prep our rig for our shift. "You never know when you're going to need a change of clothes and a shower in between calls."  
I really hope it's not today.

We have a relatively slow morning and by quarter past ten we're parked up in our usual spot just along from Kamekona's famous shrimp truck. My shirt is practically dry now, thanks to liberal blasts of warm-ish air from the rig's air-con in between calls. The rain is off for the moment but there are thundery-looking clouds rolling in over Malama Bay. It won't be long before the next deluge hits.  
It's Heather's turn to buy so I roll down the windows and slouch down in my seat as she ducks into the back of the rig to pull her purse from our 'personal' locker. While I wait, I find my gaze being drawn to the spot where Commander McGarrett was injured a few days back. There's nothing to suggest someone was knocked down by a car except the echoes of Gracie's terrified screams and the sickening thud of metal colliding with flesh and bone that I hear when I close my eyes.

I jump when Heather thrusts my coffee in through the open window. She gives me a strange look as I take the cup from her but she waits until she's settled in the passenger seat with Kamekona's famous spicy shrimp plate balanced on her knee before calling me out.  
"What's with you?" she asks around a mouthful of plastic wrapping. She uses her teeth to tear open the little packet plastic of cutlery and manages to send her salt and pepper packets flying. Cursing, she sets her lunch down on the bench seat and ducks down into the foot-well to retrieve them. "You were away with the fairies just there," she continues, decanting the salvaged pepper sachet onto her shrimp. "Is that little girl's mom still bothering you?"

Shaking my head, I blow on my coffee and take a careful sip before lying through my teeth. "No, I bumped into my ex the other day." I'm not sure why I don't just tell her the truth but now that I've started the lie, I kind of feel obligated to continue with it. "Candace was with him," I continue. "He's asked her to marry him."  
That last part is actually true; Katie saw the announcement in the paper the other week and called Eddie every name she could think of before turning the picture of the smiling couple into confetti.

"I take it the breakup wasn't exactly mutual?" Heather asks as she attempts to stab a shred of lettuce with her fork.  
"He broke up with me in a text message. It's okay, though – I'm over it." I shrug and then hold my thumb and index finger a few inches apart. "He wasn't exactly Harry Styles, if you know what I mean."  
"Ouch…" Heather pauses to swallow and then reaches for her bottle of water. "He sounds delightful. You're better off without someone like that, Chloe."  
"I know." I reach over to steal a shrimp from her takeout tray. "Candace is welcome to him. I'm sure they'll be very happy together… At least, until Eddie gets bored and moves onto the next one." I don't quite succeed at keeping the resentment from my voice but Heather laughs anyways and checks the rig's dispatch interface for incoming jobs.

"Are you finished?" she asks, pointing to my paper cup. There's a new job flagged up on the interface screen and Heather looks like she's itching to get back to work so I nod and start to gather up the trash from the front seat.  
"Where to?" I ask as I fasten my seatbelt and turn the key in the ignition. I wait for Heather to buckle up putting the rig into reverse. I even double check I'm in the right gear before I release the handbrake. Heather reads the information coming through from dispatch out loud as I inch out of our parking space.  
"Waialae-Kahala. Twenty-four year old female with a GSW to the right arm."  
"Through and through?"  
"Doesn't say. We'll go on blue lights, just in case," Heather says, reaching over to flip on them on. "HPD is already there.

Kahala is an affluent neighborhood on the south side of Oahu, boasting palm-lined streets and sprawling beachside mansions. It's home to some of the most expensive properties in the entire state of Hawaii; the average house here sells for around 1.4 million dollars. Well out of my price range. As we scour the street for the right address, Heather points out a lone marked police car that's parked a little ways along the road.  
She silences the sirens as I pull up to the curb.  
The property is sizeable and surrounded by an eight-foot wooden fence, and there's a CCTV camera mounted on one of the gateposts. The residents are either extremely security conscious or they're up to no good. Either way, the camera doesn't appear to have done much; the wrought-iron gates are lying wide open and there's a car-sized dent in the spot where the two halves meet. A silver Camaro with extensive damage to its front bumper is sitting in the sweeping driveway with its doors lying open, and a red Cruze and a black Traverse have been abandoned in a similar fashion behind it. Heather and I are forced to squeeze past them and a stunning green Audi R8 to get to the front door of the house, which looks like something you'd see on _MTV Cribs_.

"Officer Kalakaua is upstairs," the uniformed officer on the door says, pointing us towards the sweeping, curved staircase in the corner of the hallway. "Last door on the left. Lieutenant Kelly is with her."  
Officer Kalakaua turns out to be Kono, the model-like brunette I met at the bar the night I had my little emotional breakdown, and I recognize Lieutenant Kelly as the older man who was sitting in the booth with Detective Williams. They're both Five-0, which explains the car-as-a-battering-ram stunt. It's the sort of thing McGarrett would do. He's obviously a bad influence.

Kono is sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the bed when we walk into the master suite and Lieutenant Kelly is kneeling beside her, holding a white towel against her upper arm in an attempt to stem the bleeding. Despite the bloodstains on the carpet, my eye is automatically drawn to the bulletproof vests – Kono's is lying on the floor but the Lieutenant is still wearing his - and the guns holstered at the two officers' hips.  
Despite having been shot, Kono manages a small smile as I move her discarded Tac vest off to one side and set my equipment down. I haven't treated a gunshot wound before so I'm not quite sure what to expect. Sure, there were photos in my textbook, but it's one thing to be able to look a picture and another to be able to deal with, not only the sight, but the smell and the emotions that go with it. So yeah, nervous just about covers it. I just hope that I can keep my cool if Heather makes me the lead on this one.

Heather nods when I look over at her and then bends down to pull the blood pressure cuff and her stethoscope from her bag so I squeeze into the small space between Lieutenant Kelly and the bed, and carefully lift the towel away from the wound. It appears to be graze, rather than the through-and-through I was expecting but there's so much blood that I can't really tell how much damage has been done.  
"I going to give this a quick clean so I can see what's going on," I say as I pull a pack of gauze and a squeezy bottle of saline solution from my kit bag. The towel that was used to stop the bleeding is folded and I get Lieutenant Kelly to hold it under Kono's elbow so the run-off doesn't destroy the carpet further. It looks like it could salvageable in its current state so adding pink-tinged saline to the mix probably won't make me very popular with HPD's cleanup guys.

A minute or so later, I've cleaned the majority of the blood from her arm. The wound itself is not what I imagined it would be. In simple terms, it looks like someone has taken a spoon to Kono's arm and scooped out the flesh. Like the opposite of a welt, if that makes sense?  
"The doctor will want to give that a good clean to make sure there's nothing foreign in there," Heather tells Kono as she unwraps the pressure cuff from Kono's arm and stuffs it back in her bag. "You'll probably get a week or two's worth of antibiotics to take on top of the painkillers."  
The treatment Heather's just described doesn't exactly scream gunshot wound, does it? Whenever I hear those words, my brain automatically conjures up images of bloodied surgical gowns and nights spent sitting vigil in the ICU, whereas this one won't even need stitches. Just Hibiscrub and Penicillin. If only all of our cases were that simple.

I press a wad of gauze against the wound and use a cohesive bandage – a funky colored crepe-like wrap that sticks to itself – to hold it in place while Heather gathers up the plastic wrappers and soiled pieces of gauze; the wrappers go in the bin in the en-suite bathroom, the gauze in a yellow biohazard bag that will go in the incinerator when we get to the next hospital.  
I tuck in a loose corner and sit back on my heels to survey my work as Heather disappears along the landing with the oxygen tank and portable ECG monitor - they're one of the first things we grab when we arrive at a scene and every time they go back on the rig unused I put a few coins in the collection box at whichever hospital we end up going to.

"Okay, you're all set. Do you need any pain relief before we head downstairs?"

Kono shakes her head so I close the lid of the yellow hard-shell drugs box and lock it. The key gets attached to the D-clip on my belt so it doesn't get lost; we have to hand it in at the end of every shift along with a detailed list of any medications we've dispensed, and the amounts.  
Lieutenant Kelly helps Kono to her feet and guides her towards the stairs while I swing my kit bag over my shoulder and grab the drugs box. The bulky drugs box bumps against my thigh but I ignore it as I hurry to catch up with the two Five-0 officers. The uniform on the door steps to one side as we approach him and I let Lieutenant Kelly and Kono go first, and then follow them out onto the front step.  
There are now two marked cars parked across the entrance of the crowded drive and their occupants are hovering in the space between the R8 and the Camaro. I spot Detective Williams standing over a dark-haired young man whose hands have been cuffed behind his back. The back of the detective's shirt is damp with perspiration. The guy in the cuffs must have tried to make a run for it.

As I pick my way between the cars on the drive Steve appears dragging a second young man in cuffs with him. Actually, make that cable ties. Boy Scout 101 - always be prepared, right?  
"Move," he barks, shoving his prisoner forwards. He's got a gloved hand fisted in the back of the guy's dress shirt and the other wrapped around his suspect's wrist as he propels the guy across the lawn into his partner's arms. "Book him, Danno."

"That wasn't funny the first time you said it," the detective grumbles as he slips a proper pair of cuffs around the guy's wrists. "Sit there and don't move." He directs the young man to a spot on the ground and waves over the uniformed officers as the young man grudgingly sinks to his knees.

McGarrett jogs over to us as we squeeze through the gap between the damaged Camaro and the black Traverse and he eyes the bandage on Kono's arm with concern. I'm guessing he missed the immediate moments after the shooting to give chase to the two suspects as they hightailed it outta there. I don't blame them for running; the commander looks even more intimidating than usual with the holster strapped around his thigh and his tac vest on. The semi-healed road rash on the side of his face only adds to the whole 'dangerous' vibe he's giving off.

"You okay?"

Kono nods. "Yeah, I'm fine," she tells her boss with a shrug and a small smile as Detective Williams wanders over to join the group. "It's just a graze."

"I'm sorry, 'just a graze'? You've definitely been hanging out with McGarrett too long," Williams huffs as he shoves his hands in his pockets. When the man in question grins, he snarks, "That's not a good thing, Steven."

I don't take it personally when Kono decides that she'd rather have Lieutenant Kelly take her to the Emergency Room than go with us in the ambulance.  
"I'm fine and you're needed elsewhere," she tells me. "Chin will drive me. Right, Cuz?" She kind of has a point - every extra minute spent here means that someone who needs our help may go without, so it does makes sense for her cousin – I assume they're related, and that she wasn't using it to mean that they're close friends - to take her.

"Make sure you get that looked at," I instruct, pointing to the bandage on Kono's arm. Shifting my kit bag higher onto my shoulder, I say, "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant," to her cousin and smile at both Williams and McGarrett as I pass them on my way out to the street.  
"See you around, guys." To McGarrett, I add, "Try to stay out of trouble, huh?"  
Williams snorts. "Like that's going to happen," he calls after me. "Trouble is Steve's middle name."

When I get back to the rig I pass the drugs box up to Heather, who immediately locks it in the safe at the back of the bus.  
"Where is she?" my partner asks when the young woman doesn't appear behind me.  
I let my kit bag slide down off my shoulder. "Her cousin's going to drive her," I reply, handing over the bright green backpack.  
"Fair enough." Heather shrugs and shoves my bag in next to hers before jumping down from the back of the rig. As we climb into the cab and fasten our seatbelts, I ask, "Do you know where the nearest service station is? We should probably go get gas while its quiet."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It's one of those unwritten rules that you never mention how quiet is it. Ever. It usually comes back to bite you in the ass and then you end up longing for a few minutes respite so you have time to grab a drink or go to the bathroom. So yeah… Mea culpa. My bad. I flash my partner an apologetic look before I indicate and pull away from the curb. That'll teach me to think before I open my mouth.

Unsurprisingly, the rest of our shift passed in a blur of calls. We got called out to a RTA just after two pm – a tourist bus had gone off the road and flipped over, sending bodies and belongings flying. We spent hours triaging, prepping the critically injured for transport by air and road, and then treating and comforting the walking wounded. Crying children huddled under blankets at the side of the road while Heather and I picked our way through the scrub to wherever we were needed next.  
By the end of my shift, I was cold, wet and muddy, and desperate for something to push the afternoon's bloodshed from my mind. I met Katie for a late dinner at the Hilton Hawaiian Village and afterwards we went for a walk along the beach. Katie slipped off her shoes as we wandered down to the shoreline and let the waves wash over her feet while we strolled towards the jetty a little ways along the sand. We were nearly back at the hotel when she yelped, swore and started hopping around on one foot. I found a shard of glass the size of a quarter embedded in her sole when I used the flashlight on my phone to see what was going on. So much for a quiet evening.

"I can't believe you have a piece of glass stuck in your foot," I grumble as I flip on my indicator and turn into the parking structure at Queens Medical Centre. Katie is sitting across the back seat of my car with her right foot elevated on a stack of towels borrowed from the hotel.  
"It's not like I did it on purpose," Katie snaps back. I can see her glaring at me in the rearview mirror as I reverse into a space and kill the engine. I know it's not her fault but I can't shake off the annoyance that I'm feeling. I blame PMS. I turn into a fire-breathing dragon the week before I'm due.

Turning in my seat, I shoot Katie an apologetic look over my shoulder and give her my best puppy-dog-left-out-in-the-rain impression. "I know, I'm sorry. Do you forgive me?"  
Katie rolls her eyes dramatically but there's a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "I suppose so," she sighs. She uses the armrest on the door to push herself up and then pauses as she tries to work out how she's going to get out of the car without standing on or knocking her foot. What she plans on doing once she's upright, I don't know. It's not like she'll be able to walk and there's no way I'm carrying her.  
"Stay put just now," I tell her as I pull the key from the ignition and unbuckle my seatbelt. "I'm going to go find a wheelchair."

It takes some wrangling but Katie eventually manages to unfold herself from the backseat. She drops into the wheelchair with a relieved sigh, propping her feet up on the footrests as I push her towards the bank of elevators at the opposite end of the floor.  
The nurse at the sign-in desk points us towards a row of blue plastic seats once she's taken down Katie's full name (Katherine Elizabeth Lawson-Brent), date of birth (21 April 1988, a mere five days after mine) and the reason for her visit. The waiting room is almost empty and I selfishly hope that means Katie will be called quite quickly. I've already spent more than enough time in the emergency department today.

I park Katie's wheelchair in the corner facing the wall-mounted TV and drop into the chair beside her. There's a Keeping Up With The Kardashians repeat on - Katie's hooked but I don't really understand the attraction, if I'm honest. It's a reality show about a woman who's famous for having a sex tape and not much else. I mean, what kind of example does that set? My family would disown me, not invite a camera crew in to follow their every move.

"I kinda feel sorry for Bruce Jenner," Katie mutters under her breath as she watches the gold-medal Olympian leave his Calabasas mansion for several days without anyone noticing. Poor old Bruce - Kris is too busy being a 'Momager' to even notice that he's gone.

Thankfully, it doesn't take long for the triage nurse to call Katie's name. I grab my bag and unlock the brakes on Katie's wheelchair as the nurse – an older man in blue scrubs - points us towards one of the triage rooms. He asks the usual questions – does she have any medical conditions or allergies? Is she pregnant? – then checks her pulse, blood pressure and temperature before removing the bandage from around Katie's foot. He looks a little surprised when he finds the doughnut ring I had to MacGyver a from a bunch of drinking straws and some Scotch Tape to stop the bandage pushing the glass shard further into her sole (See, McGarrett's not the only one who can think on his feet).  
Once he's is happy that Katie isn't going to bleed out or pass out from blood loss, we're sent back to the waiting room to wait for the doctor.

"I don't know if I can go through with it," Katie whispers as I push her back over to the row of chairs near the TV. She's hunched over in the chair, knuckles white where she's gripping the armrests. The triage nurse told her the gash on her foot is going to need stitches to close it. It wouldn't have been such a big deal if Katie wasn't absolutely terrified of needles.  
"Why can't they just glue it?" She fixes me with wide, scared eyes. She's got herself up so worked up that I reach over to peel her hand off of the armrest and grasp it in my own. Her skin is surprisingly clammy and there's a slight tremble running through her hand as I squeeze it tight.  
"They won't stitch it if they don't have to," I soothe. "Try not to think about it."

Easier said than done. Katie's face is white long before a second scrub-clad nurse appears to escort us to a cubicle in the Minor Injuries Unit. I can feel her shaking when I take her arm to help her up onto the exam bed and she fidgets nervously while we wait for the doctor to make an appearance. As luck would have it, the doctor just happens to be the same small Hawaiian woman who treated Steve McGarrett after his run in with the Jeep Cherokee a few days ago. She smiles at me over the rims of her glasses and then sets her clipboard down on the counter.

"I'll give you a shot of local before we take this out," the doctor tells Katie once she's poked and prodded the area around the protruding glass shard. "I need a few minutes to get everything together and then we'll get started. Any questions?"  
"She's terrified of needles." I feel the need to point that out before the doctor comes back with a vial of Lidocaine, a hypodermic needle and a suture kit, but thankfully she's sympathetic to Katie's plight.  
"I'll give you something to take the edge off, dear," she tells Katie kindly as she gathers up her clipboard. "Try not to worry."

That something turns out to be Valium. Fifteen minutes after swallowing the little blue pills, Katie's slumped back against the bed and the doctor is injecting the last of the local anesthetic into the skin around the wound. Her grip on my hand is surprisingly strong considering she's technically been sedated, but sacrificing the feeling in my fingers is a small price to pay when Katie barely flinches each time the needle goes in. I feel like shouting 'Atta girl!' every time she doesn't react. It only takes a few minutes for the stitches to put in. The doctor ties off the last suture and then goes off to organize a set of crutches while we wait for the Valium to wear off enough for Katie to be able to use them.

"How are you doing?" I draw Katie's hair away from her face and she offers me a drowsy smile in return.

"M'sleepy," she mutters. "S'there water?"

"I'll go get you some. I won't be long."

In the waiting room, I feed a dollar bill into the vending machine and watch as the motorized arm plucks a bottle of water from the bottom shelf. I also buy a bottle of coke for myself because I can feel myself starting to fade. I've been on my feet for over fifteen hours and I just don't have it in me to drag myself all the way to the cafeteria for that much-needed caffeine fix. Coke will have to do.  
I tuck the bottles under my arm and drop my purse in my bag before turning to head back to Minor Injuries. Only, instead of walking across the waiting room towards door by the sign-in desk, I run smack bang into something solid. And warm.

Steve McGarrett grabs my shoulders to steady me when I bounce off his chest and the bottles under my arm are sent rolling across the waiting room floor. The Kevlar and thigh holsters are gone, and the badge that normally sits at his hip is missing so I'm guessing he isn't here on official business. Ducking down, he grabs the runaway bottles and holds them out to me.

"Here."

He's close enough that I can smell the spicy warmth of his aftershave and I'm forced to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. He smiles but he looks tired, and his usually piercing blue eyes are slightly dull, and obscured by bags that Vuitton would be proud of.  
The mother hen in me wants to lecture him about the dangers of not getting enough sleep and then tuck him into bed for the night.

"What are you doing here?"

'Hello' or 'thanks' would probably have been a better choice but it would appear that the combination of Calvin Klein Obsession and the firmest chest I've ever felt (and I've felt a fair few since starting this job) is having the same affect on my brain as Kryptonite on Superman. Steve's brow furrows in response and he lets his hands drop down to his waist. The movement causes my Coke to bubble and fizz, and turn to foam near the neck of the bottle.  
"I could ask you the same thing," he says, nodding down at my pink and orange boardies. When he catches sight of my Hello Kitty flip flops – a present from my brother, Jack – he grins. "Nice slippers. I think Grace has the same ones."

"Uh, yeah…" I glance down at the plastic feline decals on my shoes and cringe. "My brother apparently still sees me as a chubby three year old in pigtails and dungarees."

I've actually been meaning to buy myself another pair but then I became a paramedic and my social life pretty much went out the window. When I'm not working, I'm studying, and if I'm not studying, I'm sleeping. I can't tell you the last time I went shopping for something other than groceries. The only thing benefitting from my new career right now is my bank account.

"Commander McGarrett?"

We both turn to look at the nurse standing by the door into to treatment area. "You can come through," she tells Steve as she swipes open the swinging door into Minors. Propping it open with her hip, she busies herself with the paperwork on her clipboard while she waits for Steve to join her.

"You'd better go," I say, holding my hands out for the bottles Steve's still holding. "Trust me when I tell you it's not a good idea to keep the nurses waiting – they're the ones with the needles." It's a really lame joke but he smiles at it anyways and, dear _lord_, those dimples… Where the hell did they come from?  
He's still there when I look up from sliding my bottles into my bag and I roll my eyes before giving him a gentle shove. "_Go…_"

He seems to hesitate but then he drops his head and nods. "See you around," is all he says before he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the corridor. It's only when the door into Minors swings shut behind him that I realize I still don't know why he's here. It's really none of my business but as the nurse behind the desk buzzes me in through the door, I can't help but wonder. Is he ill? Is he here because of the injuries he sustained when he was hit by that car?

Rounding the corner, I come to an abrupt halt at the beginning of the long row of cubicles lining the back wall. There's a gap in the curtain of the cubical in front of me and, wouldn't you know, it's just wide enough for me to see Steve lean down and hug the woman sitting on the bed. She clutches at him, burying her face in his chest. When he kisses the top of her head, I feel a strange jolt in the pit of my stomach.

Her long dark hair has been pulled into a messy ponytail and she's wearing a hospital gown that droops down over her shoulders when she wraps her arms around Steve's neck but there's no mistaking that she's the girl from the photos. Steve's girlfriend. Biting my lip, I drop my gaze to the floor and force myself to walk away.


	9. Chapter 6 - part 1

I'm sorry it's taken a while to update. I've been so busy getting the horses ready for the biggest show of the year and just not had time to sit down and write.

Wow, I can't believe how many people have reviewed. Thank you, it means a lot. :)  
Some of you asked about Catherine – Hopefully this chapter will answer some of your questions. Finally, I really hope none of you are too disappointed by what I feel is the natural progression of Chloe and Steve's relationship. Hopefully you'll bear with me...

* * *

What better way to start the working week than with a fatal heart attack? I'm sure it's not the start Alan Davis and his family envisioned, either, when they decided to spend the morning at the beach; fifteen minutes into an impromptu game of volleyball Alan Senior suffered a massive heart attack and collapsed. A passer-by flagged down a passing patrol car, which happened to contain Sargent Duke Lekela. He performed CPR until we arrived, but in the end there was nothing we could do to save Mr. Davis. What was supposed to the holiday of a lifetime ended with Daddy Dearest being pronounced in the middle of Waikiki Beach while the world and his mistress looked on.  
Mrs. Davis is kneeling beside her husband, Heather's arm around her shoulders as she struggles to pull herself together long enough to say goodbye to her husband of twenty-three years. Her children stand behind her, shielding their mother from the prying eyes of the tourists wandering along that part of the beach. Once they've said their goodbyes, the eldest Davis' body will be transported to the ME's office and his family will be left to arrange for their loved one to be repatriated. To make things a little easier, Sargent Lukela has very kindly arranged for an officer to drive the Davis' back to their hotel and then onto the consulate in Bishop Street.

I'm packing away the defibrillator when Steve appears. He nods to the uniformed office standing guard behind me before ducking under the 'police line, do no cross' tape that Duke strung up to keep the rubberneckers away. It's been a few weeks since that night at the hospital and, so far, I've managed to avoid spending time with him. Of course, him flying off to play Battleships for a week as part of his reserve drill helped, as did the flu bug that sent me to my bed for three days and kept me off work for a further five. But while Steve looks happy, healthy and tan, my skin tone still resembles that of the recently deceased. Betty Boop looks positively bronzed in comparison.

It wasn't until I forced myself to walk away that I realized the strange feeling in the pit of my stomach was jealousy. Wanting something you can't have is torture, pure and simple; I spent so much time lusting after Eddie in the weeks after he dumped me that I drove myself crazy wondering what I had to do to make him love me again. Watching Steve lean down and kiss the top of his girlfriend's head made me feel the same way. That's why I've been doing my best to avoid him. Except that there's no way for me to do that right now. Sighing, I shove the pressure cuff into my bag and zip it shut.  
"I wasn't aware that a tourist dropping dead from a heart attack required Five-0's expertise," I say as I swing my kit bag up onto my shoulder. It feels heavier than normal and the strap cuts into my shoulder as I stoop down to grab the equally heavy drugs box but I ignore it as I start walking towards the car park where we were forced to abandon the rig. Steve jogs after me, his annoyingly long legs eating up the space between us until we fall into step.

"It doesn't. I had some paperwork I needed Duke to sign before I meet with the governor this afternoon," he says, nodding to the uniform as he lifts the cordon to for me to duck under it. My bag slips down over my shoulder when I bend and the strap catches the skin in the crook of my elbow as it falls to the sand with a muffled thud. It hurts and I suddenly feel the urge to throw my bag and the drugs box away in a fit of rage because I'm tired and I don't want to face up to the fact that I have a ridiculous school-girl crush on the man who's gently tugging my bag strap from my hand.

"Thanks," I mutter as he swings it onto his shoulder like its weightless. The sand shifts to grass beneath our feet as we climb the small incline separating the beach from the parking lot and I spot Steve's – at least, I assume it's his - silver Camaro parked next to one of the squad cars just along from the rig. Detective Williams is leaning against the hood with his hands in his pockets, talking to Sargent Lukela, and he lifts his chin in greeting when Steve and I walk past.

When we reach the bus, I grab the fold-down chair to pull myself up into the back of the rig and use the key on my belt to unlock the safe. "You can just leave that bag there, thanks. I'll get it in a minute," I tell Steve as I shove the bright yellow drugs box into the locker and secure it. Turning, I raise my eyebrows when I find him standing behind me with the green kit bag in hand.  
"Or I could just hold onto it," he says with a shrug, holding the bag out to me. Resting a hip on the wall at the foot of the stretcher, he folds his arms over his chest and watches as I stow it in one of the lockers. It's really uncomfortable, the way he's staring at me. When I can't take any more, I turn to him and snap, "_What_, Steve?"  
"Did I do something?" he asks after a moment's silence. Glancing down at the floor, he toes at a mark on the gray lino-style flooring and continues, "You've been kind of off with me the last couple of weeks and I was wondering if maybe I'd done something to upset you. I haven't, have I?"

"You haven't upset me."  
_I've just decided that it's easier on my feelings if I pretend we were never friends,_ I think as I slip past Steve and jump down from the back of the rig.  
"Okay." He nods and steps down from the back step as Detective Williams wanders over to join us.

"Hey," he says, nodding in my direction. Turning to his partner, he asks, "What the hell took you so long, huh? I've been waiting for you for like, fifteen minutes. Your paperwork's in the car, by the way."  
"I was helping Chloe with her equipment," Steve replies, sounding – if my ears aren't deceiving me - slightly defensive. He turns to look at me and opens his mouth to speak but before he can, the shrill ringing of a cell phone interrupts. Huffing out a frustrated-sounding sigh, Steve lets his chin drop to his chest, apparently defeated. He hold up his index finger, motioning for us to wait, as he digs his cell phone from his pocket.  
"I have to take this," he mutters, glancing down at the screen. Turning smartly on his heel, he presses the phone to his ear and I hear him say, "Governor Denning, sir," before he walks out of earshot.

While Steve prefers a more casual working uniform, Danny, in his dress shirt and silk tie, looks like a banker rather than a detective. It's not the most appropriate choice for an island where the humidity averages in the high-seventies year round.  
"How are you not melting?" I ask, nodding at the navy and silver striped noose around his neck as I slam the rig's doors shut. The back of my own shirt is damp with sweat already and it's not even ten AM. Even in the shade, the heat is suffocating. I don't know how Danny can stand it.  
"What is it with you people and ties, huh?" Danny snarks. "I like to look professional, okay? In Jersey, and every other city on the planet, this is what a detective looks like. I got 87 homicide cases under my belt looking like this. And just so you know, this is my favorite tie. Grace gave me this tie for Father's Day."

Judging from the rant I've just been subjected to, I'm guessing he feels rather strongly about the more relaxed dress code favored by the detectives on the island. I bet island time drives him crazy.

"Speaking of Grace," Danny continues, leaning back against the side of the rig. "I never thanked you for taking care of her when SuperSEAL got hit by that car. She told me you made her feel safe so… Thank you."  
I reach out to squeeze his arm. "She's a great kid."  
Danny chuckles. "Yeah, she's something else. She had that Neanderthal over there wrapped around her little finger about two minutes after meeting him. I don't think Steve realizes that it's possible to tell her 'no'."

That makes me laugh. Steve spent six months in BUD/S and made it through the psychological and physical torture of Hell Week. The Navy should be very worried if all it takes to turn one of their best to mush is one calculated look from an eight-year-old girl, puppy dog eyes or not.

"He obviously adores her," I say, shoving my hands in my pockets as I lean back against the side of the rig and rest one foot against the rear tire.  
"He does," Danny agrees. "He's a giant goof but I suppose that's better than subjecting my daughter to the trigger-happy control freak who never lets me drive my own car." Glancing over at his partner, who's wearing a line in the dirt with his pacing, Danny shakes his head and fixes me with a cryptic look that makes my stomach twist. "No, he's been acting kind of goofy recently, even for him, but it wasn't until something Grace said last night that I realized why."

I stiffen and drop my head, my posture going rigid as Danny's piercing blue gaze starts to burn a hole in the middle of my forehead.  
"What? What's wrong?" he asks, confused. "You like Steve, right? And I know he likes you, so what's the problem?"

_What's the problem_, he asks. It's this little thing that begins with a _G_ and ends with _irlfriend_. Don't get me wrong, part of me is relieved to know that Steve feels the same way even though nothing will ever come of it. But having been cheated on myself, there's no way I could ever knowing get together with a guy when I know he's already seeing someone else. Just thinking about Candace, Eddie the love rat's other woman, still makes me mad, even now.  
"I bumped into Steve at Queens a few weeks back. He was there with someone," I tell Danny, staring at a spot on the ground next to my shoe. "They looked pretty cozy, you know?"

"Yeah, I do." Danny offers me a sympathetic smile and the _Psycho_ ringtone suddenly makes a little bit more sense.

We stand in companionable silence after that, Danny watching Steve while I look towards the dunes at the edge of the parking lot, waiting for Heather to appear over the top of them.  
"Hey, that girl Steve was with," Danny asks. "Would you say she was about this tall?" He holds his hand level with his chin. "Brown hair to her shoulders?" When I nod, he grins. "That's Mary. Steve's _sister_."

Oh… Right. Well, that would explain the touchy-feely moment I stumbled upon. If her last name is McGarrett, too, that could explain why her picture came up on a Google search. I'm still trying to process the sudden revelation when Steve reappears, shoving his cell phone in his pocket.  
"Meeting's cancelled," he says to Danny, who mutters something snarky under his breath before stalking off across the parking lot towards the Camaro. When he gets there, he pulls his cell phone from the pocket of his slacks and leans against the door frame while he dials.

"Look, about the other week," Steve says, shifting his weight from left to right. "I wanted to thank you."  
"You already did."  
Steve shakes his head. "Not properly," he says softly. There's a slightly awkward pause and then he asks, "Come to dinner tonight?" When I hesitate, he takes a half step forwards. "Please, Chloe? Chin and Kono will be there, and Danny's bringing Grace."  
"Are you sure they won't mind?" I squint up at him in the bright sunlight. "I don't want to intrude if you've already made plans."  
"They won't," he assures me with a smile. "So, I'll see you tonight? Side Street, seven o'clock."  
Biting my lip, I nod. "Yeah, okay."

"Great," Steve says, glancing over his shoulder to the Camaro, where Danny's standing in the gap between the door and the frame, his phone pressed to his ear. When Danny waves him over, Steve pulls his phone from his pocket. "Give me your number. Just in case we catch a case and can't make it."  
"You better not leave me hanging, McGarrett," I warn him jokingly as I save my number under the heading 'Chloe EMS' and hand the phone back.  
"Wouldn't dream of it," he grins. Pocketing his phone, he turns and jogs across the parking lot just as Danny sticks his head out of the window and yells at his partner to hurry the hell up.

Heather's still nowhere to be found so I lean back against the rig and watch as Steve slides in behind the wheel and quickly eases the car out into the mid-morning traffic on Ala Moana Park Drive. When the Camaro has disappeared from view around the corner, I pull my phone from my pocket and fire off a quick text to Katie before heading off in search of my own partner.

H50*H50*H50

I'm woken the next morning when the person lying beside me shifts and wraps their arm around my waist. _It's probably Katie_, I tell myself as I lie there with my eyes closed and allow the warmth lull me back to the verge of slumber. It's not unheard of for the two of us to share a bed. It usually occurs when one – if not both - of us has been drinking so I figure that I must have stumbled into Katie's room early this morning after sampling one too many cocktails at dinner and she either didn't hear me or couldn't be bothered getting up to herd me into my own bed.

I've been so busy with work recently that I've barely seen my best friend. Right now I'm two days into a block of three days and three nights. Katie always says I remind her of a zombie when I come off a night shift; I'm usually so tired that I have to drive home from the depot with the windows down and the AC on full blast to stop me falling asleep at the wheel. It's the one thing about my job that I really don't like.

Speaking of work, it must nearly be time for me to get up. Pushing back the comforter, I reach down to remove Katie's arm from around my waist and my fingers brush over something cool and hard – a watch, probably – before making contact with skin. The hair on my roommate's arm feels unusually coarse and, now that I think about it, I don't remember Katie ever wearing a watch, let alone something as bulky as the one beneath my fingertips. Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I slowly look down at the arm that's curled around my stomach. The person it's attached to is wearing one of those divers watches – you know, the kind that costs and arm and a leg, and, in most cases, never actually sees the ocean? Beneath the black and yellow face, the skin is tanned and covered in dark wiry hair.  
Okay, _definitely_ not my roommate, then, which sparks the question – if not Katie, then who the heck am I in bed with?

When I twist to look over my shoulder, I'm relieved to find that I'm at home in my pretty lilac-and-white Parisian-themed bedroom but at the same time, it's like my worst nightmare has just come true. Burying my head in my hands, I peer through the gaps in my fingers just in case I've got it wrong and the person lying next to me isn't who I think it is. But no, my one night stand hasn't miraculously transformed into Brad Pitt in the few seconds since I rolled over to find my lying, cheating ex-boyfriend, Eddie Ray, in my bed.

Oh, God… Burying my head in my pillow, I pound my fists against the mattress in frustration and let out the most almighty scream inside my head. Whilst it doesn't do anything to cure my raging hangover, it does make me feel a little less like putting my pillow over Eddie Ray's head and holding it there. Reaching out, I feel along the top of my bedside table for my phone and hold it up to my face so I can squint at the time on the screen.

"_Shit!_"

It's six thirty. I'm supposed to be at work by quarter to seven, latest. Throwing back the comforter, I leap to my feet and scramble for Eddie's clothes, which I take great pleasure in dumping on top of his head as I rush to get ready for work.

"_Get up_," I hiss when he finally pushes himself up on one arm. "You have to go before Katie finds out you were here and I have to go bail her out of jail."

I don't have time to wash my hair but I can't skip showering because my arms are sticky with alcohol (_oh, God, please let it be alcohol_) and I smell like I've bathed in a vat of the stuff. I have to settle for a sixty-second scrub down under the cold tap instead of my usual leisurely shower routine and twisting my hair up into a messy bun to hide my greasy roots. At least I shaved my legs last night.

Eddie's sat on the side of my bed pulling on his dirty socks when I rush back into my room to grab clean underwear from the chest of drawers in the corner. To hell with modesty - I don't have time to be shy and anyways, it's not like he hasn't seen me naked before, so I let my towel drop and step into my pants without a second thought. I grabbed the first thing my hand touched when I got clean underwear out of my dresser so my top half ends up wearing sensible, workmanlike beige cotton while my bottom half sports pretty lace and bows. I'm so frazzled that I don't realize I'm wearing odd socks until I'm by the front door hastily shoving my feet into my work boots. _Fuck it,_ I think as I grab my keys off the hook and practically shove Eddie out into the corridor in front of me. Mismatched socks are the least of my worries right now; if I don't get my act together I risk getting a warning from work and that could affect my chances if I ever wanted to do my EMT-Intermediate or EMT-Paramedic qualifications.

Breakfast ends up being one of the blueberry Nutribars I keep in the glove box for emergencies as I pray for the traffic gods to take pity on me. Someone must be looking down on me because I hit green lights all the way and pull into the depot just as the first crew is driving out of the gates. Heather is in the garage, cleaning down the surfaces in the back of the rig, and I quickly grab the clipboard with the morning checklist from its spot by the door, and get started checking off equipment.  
"Sorry," I mutter as I busy myself counting trach tubes and IV cannulas. Heather merely raises an eyebrow in response as she moves onto checking the defibrillator case is stocked with disposable razors, wax strips and the sticky pads the electrodes connect to.

It's another fifteen minutes before we tell dispatch we're ready to take calls. Heather stares out the window as I maneuver the bus through the depot gates onto Koapaka Street.  
"Do you want to talk about it?" my partner asks, twisting in her seat to look at me across the cab. Clenching my jaw, I check my wing mirror, signal and join the on-ramp for the Queen Liliuokalani Freeway before I tell her, "No, not really."  
"Okay," Heather says with a shrug before she turns back to the window, watching the scenery as we fly along the freeway towards Downtown Honolulu.

The lack of conversation means my mind ends up working overtime to fill the silence until we get called out to a fender bender in Diamond Head. Shortly after we're hit by a deluge off call outs; we stop at a service station to use to bathroom but that's it. It's nearly three pm by the time we get a chance to sit down and eat. Lunch today is tacos from a beachside café on Kalakaua Avenue and we take our meals outside, and sit in the shade of a giant palm with our radio on the table between us.

"Listen," Heather says once we've finished eating. "I know you said you didn't want to talk, so I won't push the issue. Just promise me you'll say something if you're struggling with anything – if not to me, then to one of the watch commanders. This job is hard enough without feeling like you don't have anyone you can talk to."  
"I know I can come to you, or any of the guys at the station," I say, tossing my napkin down on the table. "Look, I appreciate your concern but I'm not stressed or overwhelmed, or anything like that. I _love_ being a paramedic. I just…" I pull a face. "I did something really stupid last night and it's kinda thrown me for a loop, you know?"

"That's understandable. We've all done things that we regret," Heather reasons. "So are we talking I spilled nail polish on my favorite silk shirt stupid, or I got caught at the beach by my boss when I called in sick stupid?"  
I chuckle humorlessly and lean forwards in my seat to grab my water. "Worse than that," I mutter as I twist off the top off the bottle. "I kinda hooked up with my ex."


	10. Chapter 6 - Part 2

_This one is short but sweet. Hopefully this will clear up some of the confusion the last chapter created.  
__Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review. I really appreciate it. :)_

28-9-15: I wasn't happy with this chapter so I've made a few changes. I think it works better now.

* * *

When I got in from work last night, Katie was already rifling through her wardrobe for something for me to wear. There was a plum-colored body-con dress laid out on top of her comforter next to a pair of patent Louboutin slingbacks that were so high they were in danger of giving me vertigo before I'd even put them on. I leaned against the doorframe and watched as my best friend continued to pick through the dresses hanging in her closet.  
"You know we're going to Side Street and not the Ritz, right?"  
"So?" My roommate pulled a striped A-line sundress from its hanger and held it up while she considered it. When it didn't make the cut, she tossed it on the floor at the back of the cupboard. "Trust me, when he sees you in that dress and those shoes… Well, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you."  
"I'm not wearing $900 shoes to a sports bar, Katie," I told her. "Pick something else."

After I showered, I let Katie shoehorn me into a pair of skinny jeans so tight I was sure they were going to cut off my circulation and caught a cab to Side Street. There was no sign of the silver Camaro as the driver pulled up to the curb outside but I was a few minutes early so I paid the far and went inside to wait at the bar.  
As eight pm came and went, I tried to distract myself with the football game that was being shown on the big screen behind the bar. At eight thirty, I gave up waiting for everyone to appear and ordered a drink. My phone pinged with a text from an unknown number as the guy behind the bar took my order.

_Caught a case. Raincheck?  
S._

Disappointed didn't even begin to describe how I was felt. Pushing my phone away, I waited for the barman to set my drink down in front of me and then took a long draw from it, savoring the way the alcohol burned at the back of my throat. Because it would have been petty not to, I typed out_ be safe_ and pressed send. Then I ordered a burger because I was starving and well, why not? Katie was out at a colleague's leaving party so I didn't have anyone to go home to and I'd gone to a lot of effort to look this good. It would have been a shame to let it go to waste by going home.

I was sitting at the bar, chatting away to a couple of stags from Houston, Texas when Eddie appeared next to me. It had been almost a year since I'd last seen him; there were fine lines around the corners of his eyes and a hint of grey at his temple but his smile was the same as the day I'd fallen in love with him five years earlier.  
"Can I buy you a drink for old time's sake?" he'd asked, fixing me with an apologetic smile. "Please, Chloe. One drink and I'll leave you to get on with your night."  
"Fine," I told him as I slid down off my stool. "One drink."

Eight hours, and several cocktails, later I woke up to find him in my bed.

"And then, to top it all off, I slept through my alarm and woke up fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be at work," I say to Heather as we leave the café and walk along Kalakaua Avenue towards our rig. "I swear, my day could not get any worse if it tried."  
"It's not over yet," Heather warns with a laugh. "Come on," she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. "Let's go see if we can take your mind off of things."

The next call we accept takes us to the house of an elderly gentleman, whose neighbors became worried when they noticed yesterday's paper was still lying on the porch. Looking in through a window, they found him lying at the bottom of the stairs. They're not sure how long ago he fell – he's not sure how long he's been lying there – but he's conscious and talking, which is a good sign.  
Archie is an absolute sweetheart and, even though he looks like he's gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson, he's embarrassed by all the fuss (the fire department had to break down the door so we could get in) and adamant that he doesn't want to be a bother. It sounds horrible but it's a welcome change – we've been called out to cut fingers and a facial hemorrhage that turned out to be a squeezed zit that had started bleeding. I'm not even kidding.

Archie insists on calling Heather 'Ma'am', and me 'Miss Chloe' as I insert an IV cannula into a vein in the back of his hand and tape it down, and Heather fits a cervical collar around his neck. On the ride to Kings he talks about his late wife, Mae, whom he was married to for almost sixty years and I'll admit to wiping away a few tears when he tells us how she slipped away in his arms after a long battle with cancer. Archie reminds me so much of my beloved Grampa Charlie that I make a mental note to ask about visiting him once he's back home and recovered from his injuries.

"They don't make them like that anymore," Heather comments wistfully as we push our stretcher through the halls of King's emergency department after leaving Archie in the very capable hands of the ER staff. "I mean, Ross and I threaten to divorce each other at least once a year. It'll be a miracle if we make it to ten years, let alone to our ruby anniversary."  
"I thought it was sweet. I'd give my eye teeth to find a man like Archie," I tell my partner with a one-shouldered shrug as we reach the automatic doors leading to the ambulance bay.

My love life so far reads like a psychologist's wet dream. First there was Adam, who lived down the street and dumped me for Lucy Wilson because she had a Tamagotchi and the latest Nike high-tops. Then there was Lewis, whose parents moved to New Mexico and, being only 16, he was unfortunately obliged to go with them. After that came Jonathon, who decided six months into our relationship that he preferred men – no, really - and a year or so after that I met Eddie at a party. No wonder I'm so fucked up when it comes to love.

There are two other buses in the bay when we walk outside and we leave our bus's back doors open as we starting prepping for our next job, filling in the drugs log and stripping the soiled sheets from the gurney. Maroon Five's new single is playing on the radio as we work but I can hear the wail of sirens over Adam Levine singing what sounds a lot like a line from Def Leppard's 'Pour Some Sugar On Me'. Who would have thought he was a classic rock fan?  
The sirens grow louder quickly. The oscillating tones clash repeatedly, creating a wall of noise that makes me wince in pain as a bus pulls into the space next to us and a pair of marked patrol cars blocks it - and us - in.

"Hey," Heather shouts at one of the officers as they hurry into the ER. "You're blocking us in." They all ignore her and disappear though the automatic doors without so much as acknowledging our presence. Nice…  
"Assholes," I mutter under my breath. They're as bad as – _worse than_ – the people who call us out for a non-emergency and I find myself wondering what the consequences would be if our Watch Commander found out that we were prevent from doing our job by the boys in blue, who swore to save lives alongside us. Turning to Heather, I ask, "Now what?" and watch uneasily as she sinks down onto the end of the stretcher.  
"Nothing," she says shortly, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "We'll have to wait for them to move."  
Great. Who knows how long that's going to take? With a sigh, I drop down next to Heather and settle in for the wait.

"_I spy with my little eye, something beginning with_…. S." Heather has a worryingly smug grin on her face as I push myself away from the wall I've been leaning against and look around the rig to see if I can find what she's 'spied'. We've been waiting well over half an hour for an officer to move the car and there's been neither hide nor hair of HPD. Heather even got one of the girls at the ER sign-in desk to put out a PA for us. _I-Spy_ seemed like as good a way as any to amuse ourselves while we waited. Heather guessed my first go - T for _trach tube_ – embarrassingly easily while I struggled to figure out hers – A for the _air freshener_ hanging from the rearview mirror in the cab.  
"Is it _sphygmomanometer_?" I ask but my hopes are dashed when my partner laughs and shakes her head. "Heatherrrrr," I mock whine when my subsequent three guesses are met with the same response. "What is it? Is it even in here?"  
Heather smirks. "Nowhere in the rules does it say the spied object must be within twenty feet."  
I look out the window and spot the blue truck that's parked – illegally, I might add - outside the public entrance to the ER and jump to my feet.  
"_Silverado_," I cry triumphantly.  
It's only when a very familiar silver Camaro pulls up behind it that I realize who the blue behemoth belongs to. They're probably here with the HPD guys who blocked us in and I mutter something along the lines of _Five-0, owes me _and_ be right back_ to my partner as I launch myself down the ramp and onto the pavement.

"Hey," I call out as I hurry over to where he and Danny are standing outside the main door, the atmosphere between the two men unusually tense. Steve's still wearing the blue polo shirt and black cargos he had on yesterday morning and he has a strangle-hold on his phone when he whips round to face me. His whole body is practically vibrating with tension. Danny looks stricken, too, and it sends a sickly chill up my spine.  
"Is everything ok?" I ask when Steve automatically goes back to pacing the length of the spidery crack in the pavement without a word. Danny nods distractedly and runs a hand through his hair.  
"Yeah. Everything's fine," he tells me, although he doesn't quite manage to meet my eye.

_Liar, liar, pants on fire,_ I think as I glance over my shoulder to where Steve seems hell bent on wearing a track in the concrete. I haven't seen him this agitated since that day at the warehouse and I can't help but wonder what's happened to make him look like he's two seconds away from exploding. Instead of asking, I change the subject. Well, sort of...  
"Rough night, huh?" I take in the dark shadows under Danny's eyes and rumpled dress shirt, which, for the first time since we met, is open at the neck. I guess looking professional isn't at the top of your priorities when you've been on the job since 8am the previous day. Glancing over my shoulder at the marked cars by the ambulance bay I ask, "The case you were working on yesterday?"  
Danny nods. "Yeah, same one." Clearing his throat, he adds, "Uh… Grace was disappointed that we had to cancel last night. She was wanting to ask you something."  
"She was?" I shudder, hoping Grace's question has nothing to do with the rather uncomfortable conversation I had with her father yesterday morning regarding the man she calls 'Uncle Steve'. Awkward. Danny's expression isn't giving anything away so I tentatively ask, "Do you happen to know what it was?"  
He chuckles. "Well, it was hard to get a word in edgeways but I think it might have something to do with the fact that it's her birthday party a week on Friday. I know she'd love for you to be there."

"A week on Friday?" I run through my work rota in my head. Today is Tuesday, day two of my six-shift block. I start nightshift Thursday night and finish Sunday morning, and then I'm off for four days (It'll probably take me that long to get myself back into sync with the world) so that means I go back to work on Thursday. Boo... I pull a face and tell Danny, "I have to work but maybe I could drop her present off and she could open it with her other gifts?"  
He tries to wave off my offer by saying, "You don't have to get her anything. She's spoiled enough as it is," but I already have the perfect gift in mind. Grace is going to love it.

Steve is still pacing along the crack in the pavement behind us but he stops abruptly when the automatic door into the emergency department slides open to reveal a uniformed officer. The officer simply shakes his head sadly before walking back into the hospital and Steve rubs his hands up over his face and laces his fingers behind his head.  
_"Fuck," _he mutters, letting his arms drop to his sides. Turning on his heel, he pulls his phone from his pocket and heads towards his truck with his phone pressed to his ear.

"I'm sorry," I say, laying a hand on Danny's shoulder. He sighs, suddenly looking a lot older than his thirty-six years, and turns to watch Steve pace back and forth in front of his truck.  
"Yeah," he replies quietly. "Me too."


	11. Chapter 7 - Part 1

_Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to favourite, follow and review - I really appreciate it. :)_

_I've decided to split this chapter into two parts since a) it's not quite finished yet and b) it's already sitting at a little under 6000 words. I *promise* I will have the second part finished and posted by the end of next week._

_Those of you who asked for more whump and some Danny comfort - ask and ye shall receive... Kind of (some of it's in the next part).  
_

_Okay, so that said, please take everything I've written regarding medical/ambulance staff/police procedures with a pinch of salt. I'm pretty much making it all up as I go along._

* * *

When I get home from work, the first thing I do is turn the TV on. Then I rummage through the kitchen cupboards for a packet of instant noodles, to which I add chicken, broccoli, bean sprouts and carrots, and voila! Dinner. I carry my bowl over to the living room and sink down onto the couch, sighing when the squashy oversized cushion molds to my body. I imagine this is what sitting on a big fluffy cloud is like: Sheer. Unadulterated. Bliss.

The TV is tuned to one of the local news channels and I fumble for the remote to turn up the sound when the screen cuts to a photography of a little girl with long chestnut curls, rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. She looks like she belongs on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with Raphael's cherubs.  
The news anchor is saying:

'_Six year old Mackenzie Adams was abducted from the home she shared with her mother yesterday morning. This afternoon, the body of a child was recovered from a property in the A'eia Heights area and a man arrested in connection with the discovery. Sources have named the man as twenty-eight year old Jason Saunders, who, until recently, was in a long-term relationship with Mackenzie's mother. Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett, whose Five-0 task force lead the search for Mackenzie, provided us with this update.'_

The picture jumps from the new studio to the grounds of the Iolani Palace. Someone has set up a podium with a microphone in front of the arched entrance and there's a crowd of journalists gathered around it, camera lenses and notebooks poised, waiting. I lean forwards in my seat when Steve walks through the tall wooden doors accompanied by Danny and Duke Lukela. The two men stand off to one side as Steve steps up to the microphone.

"_I can confirm that the body recovered from a property in the A'eia Heights area has been identified as that of Mackenzie Adams. Mackenzie's mother has asked for privacy as she tries to come to terms with her loss. On behalf of the Governor's office and the Honolulu Police Department, I would like to extend my sympathies to her and Mackenzie's family."_

He pauses to clear his throat before continuing:

"_A twenty-eight year old male found in a bedroom of the property with a self-inflicted gunshot wound was transported to the King's Medical Centre but later succumbed to his injuries. As a result, we are not looking for anyone else in connection with Mackenzie's death at this time. Sargent Lukela will take your questions."_

The crowd erupts and the cameraman zooms in on Steve as he turns on his heel. Danny falls into step with him as they head back into the palace and he lays a hand on Steve's shoulder just before the camera pans back to Duke, who has stepped up to the mic and is addressing the crowd.  
I click the TV off before the first question can be asked and let myself fall back against the sofa. My stomach twists and I push my noodles aside untouched. The unusual tension between Danny and Steve yesterday finally makes sense – they were waiting to hear if Jason Saunders had survived.

Wiping away a tear for poor little Mackenzie, I head into the kitchen and start hunting for some Tupperware to put my leftovers in. I look in between saucepan lids and instruction manuals, and eventually find what I'm looking for in the dishwasher. Then I turn my attention to looking for a matching lid, which I find hidden amongst the cookie cutters Katie bought on a whim last Christmas.  
But instead of cleaning up, which is what I had intended to do, I find myself running my fingers over the glittery protective cover on my phone. I can't get the image of Danny's hand on Steve's shoulder out of my head. The case obviously got to them - how could it not? Their rumpled clothes and bloodshot eyes at the hospital yesterday and at the press conference today are testament to how hard they worked to find that little girl.

Picking up my phone, I scroll through my contacts and let my thumb hovers over the phone icon next to Steve's number. I kind of want to call and see how he's holding up because that's what he did for me all those months ago when I found myself feeling like I was in over my head. But at the same time, I'm hesitating because trying to get Steve to open up about not being able to save Mackenzie is probably going to be about as easy as getting blood from a stone. But it's worth a try, right?

Taking a deep breath, I jab at the call button and put the phone to my ear. It rings once, twice… six times and then goes through to voicemail but then Steve answers with a clipped sounding 'McGarrett' just as I'm about to hang up.

"Uh, hey. I heard what happened. I'm sorry…"

I end up anchoring my phone between my ear and my shoulder so I can scrape my leftovers into that Tupperware container I found and put the container in the fridge. Nudging the fridge door shut with my hip, I push myself up onto the counter. I don't know what it is about this spot but it's leant itself to some of the more difficult conversations I've had since I moved out here. I was sitting right here in this spot when Mom told me she'd found a lump in her breast and was waiting to get it checked out. Same again, when Jack, my brother, told me he'd eloped with a girl he'd met online and that I was going to be an Auntie in the fall. The most uncomfortable conversation was probably the one I had with Eddie's parents because he'd conveniently 'forgotten' to tell them we'd broken up. Let's just say I called their son more than a few choice names before hanging up. Oops…

Steve's silent on the other end of the line but I can hear the clink of glass on glass and assume he's attempting to drown the last 36 hours in a bottle of _Jack D._ I don't blame him – I did the same thing the last time something at work got to me. I say last time but it was actually the first – the night little Sadie's mom died. My liver is probably still recovering from the epic Tequila binge I subjected it to.

I hear Katie's key turning in the lock and wave at her when she opens the door. Turning back to my phone, I twirl a loose strand of hair around my finger and ask, "Are you okay?"

Katie shoots me a curious look when she gets close enough to hear what I'm saying but when I frown and shake my head at her, she shrugs and turns to dump her bag on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Reaching into the fridge, she hands me a bottle of water and sets a second down next to the cooker. She hums under her breath as she flip on one of the burners and breezes past me to grab a clean bowl from the dishwasher, and it's almost enough to distract me from the silence that Steve is yet to break.  
Almost, but not quite.

"Hey, are you still there? Steve?" I pull my phone away from my ear to check we haven't been disconnected but no, the numbers at the top of the screen are still flickering away, counting the seconds since I made the some-what spur of the moment decision to call. He hasn't hung up on me. Yet.

When I mention Steve's name, Katie looks up sharply from where she's standing at the stove reheating her half of my chicken noodle creation. I shake my head and mouth 'later' at her, which earns me a threatening jab from the spatula she's holding. The look she gives me tells me I won't be going anywhere until I tell her everything, last night's dalliance with Eddie Ray included.

"_I'm fine."_

Steve's voice is flat when he answers and I wonder if I've maybe crossed a line by calling. I mean, we're friends but Steve is a grown man and a Navy Seal, to boot; he doesn't need me to tell him that drinking himself into oblivion isn't going to do a damn thing to bring that little girl back.  
"Right. Well, I just wanted to make sure. I guess I'll see you around," I say somewhat awkwardly, watching Katie decant food into her bowl. She slides onto the counter beside me, shoulder to shoulder, her thigh pressing against mine. Sighing, I hang up on Steve and lay my head on Katie's shoulder.

"Want to talk about it?" she asks around a mouthful of noodles. "We could have a couple of glasses of wine while you catch me up on everything. I feel like I haven't seen you in days."  
I roll my eyes and sit up. "You saw me last night," I remind her, jumping down off the counter. "You tried to make me wear a dress and five-inch heels to a sports bar, remember?"

Katie shrugs. "I still maintain they were a better choice than skinny jeans and your ratty old Chuck Taylors. The whole point of the exercise _was_ to get you laid, after all. Owww!" Laughing, she rubs at the spot above her knee where I've just smacked her with a wooden spoon. "Hey, I was helping!"  
"Is that what you're calling it?"  
"Yes." Sliding down , Katie pulls two wine glasses from the cupboard behind her and decants a healthy slug of red from the open bottle next to the fridge in each before pushing one at me. "Okay, now spill," she orders. "I want to hear everything, starting with who, if any, has a cute, single brother."

**H50*H50*H50**

"I still can't believe you brought that… _Asshole… _back here," Katie mutters, massaging her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She's hungover, thanks to last night's 'glass' of wine – hers had somehow turned into a bottle by the time we hauled ourselves off the couch just after midnight – and slumped over the breakfast bar with her head in her hands. She sounds absolutely wretched and I can't help but chuckle when she groans dramatically and sinks down further in her chair. I stuck to one glass, not willing to risk being late for work two days in a row.

"Kill me now," Katie moans, flopping down onto the countertop. "I swear to God, I am never drinking again."

That makes me snort. "You say that now, but we both know it's not true." When she glares at me – albeit weakly – I shrug and steal a sip of her coffee. "As soon as Friday rolls around, you'll be opening another bottle and – " Katie's shakily pushed herself upright and is halfway out of her seat. "Where are you going?"

"Gonna be sick." She half staggers, half runs along the hall with a hand clamped over her mouth and I stare at the back of her hand until she disappears into the small bathroom we share. The sound of retching fills the air and I sigh, and go to fill a glass with water from the cold tap, which I take with me when I slip into the bathroom to kneel beside her. My suggestion that she eat something greasy and drink a can of full fat Coke goes down like a lead balloon; Katie heaves and grumbles 'I hate you' into the toilet bowl. Any other day she'd be dragging me to Kamekona's shrimp truck.

"Go to work. Leave me to die in peace," she mutters, resting her forehead on the seat of the toilet when the loco-moco-induced bout of puking is over. She looks so pathetic that I can't bring myself to say 'I told so'. Instead, I pat her arm and push myself up from where I've been kneeling rubbing her back, and head to the kitchen to grab my ID badge and my keys.

Heather holds up a bright pink envelope when I walk into the break room at the depot. "From Archie's daughter. She flew over from Molokai last night," she explains, watching me over the rim of her coffee cup as I drop into the chair beside her and rip open the envelope to find a thank you card inside. There's a cute little duckling on the front and inside there's a scribbled message that reads _Thank you both for the kindness and respect you showed my father yesterday._

"It was nice of her to drop this off," I say, setting the card down in the middle of the table. "Did she say how her dad was doing?"  
Heather nods. "Yes, she told Jim that he's doing really well and is hopefully being discharged today. Anyways, you know what Jim's like…"

Jim is the night guard who sits at the front desk from 7pm to 6.30am Monday to Friday. He's 6'4 and built like a tank but, despite looking like he could give a certain Navy Seal a run for his money, he's actually about as scary as a marshmallow and just as fluffy on the inside.

"He promised to _personally _pass that on," Heather finishes, getting up to rinse her mug in the sink. She sets it down on the draining board to dry and checks her watch, which is usually my cue to move. "It's a little early yet," she says, waving my back into my seat.  
"It's fine, I'll go make a start on prep." I still feel bad about being late yesterday. The least I can do is check the drug box and sort a few trach tubes.

Heather climbs into the back of the rig just as I'm finishing up cleaning down the hard surfaces. "What still needs done?" she asks, looking around. I haven't quite managed to get through everything on our to-do list so Heather busies herself testing the defibrillator and making sure there are plenty of disposable razors and wax strips, while I stow the disinfectant spray and paper towels in one of the lockers and move onto checking the rig's lights.  
As soon as Heather tells dispatch we're available the interface 'pings' cheerfully two, three, four… five times in succession and the screen starts to fill with information. Heather leans forwards to accept the first job in the list, which is getting longer by the second, and quickly scans the details on the job card.

"Head to Chinatown," she tells me, settling back in her seat without activating the lights or sirens. "North Beretania. A couple of users jumped a tourist. HPD are helping him pick his teeth up out of the gutter as we speak."  
"Ouch…" I grimace in sympathy. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard I ask, "Drunk?"  
Heather shrugs. "Who knows?"

There's a marked patrol car sitting outside the Chinatown Cultural Plaza Centre and I pull up the curb behind it. One of the officers is standing over two men who are both sporting the drawn features and sallow skin of habitual drug users. Their hands have been cuffed in front of their bodies and I find my gaze being drawn to the purple-gray needle tracks marring the delicate skin on the insides of their elbows. It shouldn't make a difference, the fact that these guys regularly inject themselves with God-knows-what, but if I'm being honest, I'd be lying to you if I told you that it didn't.  
The older of the two men openly leers at me when I walk past him with my kit bag and he cackles when I automatically shrink away. The officer standing over him just smirks, choosing to ignore the one-sided exchange in front of him.

"Okay?" Heather asks when I kneel down beside her. The man's behavior and the officer's subsequent attitude has left my heart racing in my chest but I nod 'yes' and pull my pen from my pocket, ready to note our patient's vitals down on the back of my hand. Only, Noah – who's sporting a split lip, bloody nose and the beginnings of an impressive black eye – refuses to let us treat him. I guess he's embarrassed about Bill and Ben over there getting the drop on him. I would be, too, considering both users look like a strong breeze could knock them over.

Heather's attempts at checking Noah's blood pressure are met with enough protest that she ends up tossing the pressure cuff she's holding to the floor and hangs her stethoscope back around her neck with a muttered 'suit yourself, then'.  
"If you don't want to get checked out you need to sign this," she informs the California native, pushing a Refusal of Treatment form into his hand. Once it's been signed by Noah, Heather and a witness – in the case, me – Noah's free to stagger over to the patrol car that's waiting to take him back to his hotel and the so-called buddies that left him to wander the streets of Honolulu by himself for most of the night. "Oh, to be young," Heather mutters, shoving her copy of the refusal form into her pocket. She packs the pressure cuff and stethoscope away and stands, swinging her kit back up onto her shoulder. "Okay, let's go, Chloe."

The officer standing over the two handcuffed users steps out to meet us as we walk past on our way back to the rig and he points at the man who'd leered at me.

"That one's complaining about his arm, says my partner – " he gestures to the officer standing a little ways along the pavement, talking into his radio " – roughed him up when he was being cuffed."  
Sighing, Heather lets her kit bag slide down over her shoulder. Holding up Noah's refusal form, she tells me, "I'm going to put this in with the rest of the paperwork before I end up losing it. Have them separate those two and maybe double up on your gloves, just to be safe."

I take her advice and pull a second pair of gloves on over the first as the officer waves his partner over and hauls the younger of the two arrestees to his feet. He's surprisingly rough but the young man must realize that complaining isn't going to get him anywhere. "Sit there," the officer tells him, pointing at a spot on the ground by his partner's feet. When the user silently sinks to his knees, he lumbers back over and positions himself on my left, where he can watch as I treat his prisoner.

"My el-bow," the guy says in heavily accented English when I crouch down beside him and ask where it hurts. Glaring, he points at the officer's partner and says, "Dat guy dere, he grab me. S'police bru-tality."  
I gently palpate the area around his elbow, feeling for swelling and-or abnormalities. He hisses and quickly snatches his arm away when I press on the inside of the joint.  
"Ri' dere. Dats where it hurssss."

There are no obvious injuries when I look and I can't feel anything that could be a cause for concern. Watching the user's weathered face for signs of discomfort, I gently pull on his wrist and get him to straighten his arm.  
"Does that hurt?"  
He tests it out a few times, bringing his cuffed hands in towards his chest as the officer's radio crackles to life somewhere behind us. I ignore it and focus my attention on how well my patient is moving his arm. It's a bad move on my part because it means I'm not aware of what's going on around me and, unfortunately for me, the user I'm treating uses that to his advantage. Suddenly lashing out, he catches me across the side of my face with his forearm.

* * *

_So, this whole 'Five-0 from a paramedic's viewpoint' idea was actually inspired another story I started working on a good six months ago. I figured it would be kind of fun to post it as a 'sister fic' so you could see what the gang get up to when Chloe's not around. Don't worry - she does make an appearance and there's plenty of whump, of course. The two stories would intertwine._

_So, what do you guys think? Is that something you'd be interested in reading?_


	12. Chapter 7 - Part 2

_Alrighty... Here's the Danny whump that I promised. And before the weekend, too... _

_Just FYI - the last few chapters have been un-beta'ed so any and all mistakes are my own. I do try to catch them all in my last check before posting but some do manage to slip through the net._

_Those of you who have said you'd be interesting in reading my sister story - the first chapter will be posted once the next one (possibly two) chapter(s) of this story are up. I don't want to spoil to fun. _

_Thanks again to everyone who followed, favourited and reviewed. I really appreciate it. :) _

* * *

The blow leaves me seeing stars. I fall backwards and land butt-first in the gutter, clutching my throbbing cheek in shock, while the guy that hit me scrambles to his feet and takes off running along North Beretania. Cackling maniacally, he dodges in and out of the cars parked along the street and then disappears around the corner onto Maunakea street with the HPD officer hot on his heels.

"Chloe!" Heather drops to her knees beside me as I carefully push myself up to sit. "Shit. Are you okay?" I think I must nod because she mutters 'okay, good' and goes to peel my hand away from my face. "Let me see."

I let her because I'm not sure what else to do; no-one's ever hit me in the face before, unless you count the time when Jack and I were kids and he threw a My Little Pony Fluttershy toy at me, and the pointy bit of its wing poked me in the eye. She gently presses on the skin around my eye and then waits while I blink back tears. "Can you see okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Yeah. Three." I grimace and awkwardly push myself to my feet, my skinned palm stinging when it comes into contact with the pavement through my glove. I shove it in my pocket and wipe my grazed hand on my trouser leg as I follow Heather back to the rig.

"Sit down," Heather tells me when I climb into the back. She points at the stretcher and then turns away to pull an ice pack from one of the lockers, and an Incident Report form from the stack of drawers by the side door. Handing me the ice and wipes, she sinks down onto the stretcher beside me to fill out the form. "Sweeting has two E's, right?"

I nod and hold the ice to my face, watching as she writes my last name in the box headed 'About the person involved' and then scribbles _Care of Emergency Services Department, Koapaka Street, Honolulu _where the form asks for my address. Under 'Provide a brief description of the incident' she writes _assault on a crewmember_ and _treated for minor bruising and swelling_.

"Sign and date it at the bottom," she instructs, passing me the form and her pen. Nodding towards my eye, she asks, "How does it feel?"

It's sore. My cheekbone is throbbing and my eye is starting to swell. The ice is helping, though, and I'll get some painkillers slash anti-inflamatories out of the drugs box in a minute to help stave off the red-hot ache that's radiating across the entire right side of my face.  
Leaving the icepack sitting on the stretcher, I scribble my name and the date at the bottom of the Incident Report and hand it back to Heather, who drops it in the drawer with Noah's Patient Refusal form. Paperwork complete, I hunt through my kit bag for the Motrin that I keep in with the Aspirin and Tylenol tabs, and pop two out of the foil sleeve. I swallow them dry before shoving my green bag back into its locker.

There's a quiet knock on the back door as we're tidying up and I lob my now-warm icepack in the trash container before opening the door to find the officer who ran off in pursuit of the runaway addict standing outside. He's breathing hard and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve before climbing up onto the back step.

"Did you get him?" Heather barely looks up from where she's noting the Motrin on the drugs log but her tone is enough to make the officer quickly rethink his earlier attitude.

"Yes, Ma'am. We did," he tells her. Turning to me, he asks, "Do you want to press charges?"

If I'm honest, I hadn't really thought about it. I glance over at Heather but she just shrugs and goes back to filling in the drugs log. Part of me is wondering if it's even worth the bother of filling out the paperwork because the guy's a homeless drug addict – chances are he'll disappear before the case goes before a judge, if it even goes that far on the original assault charge– but then my cheek gives a particularly pain throb and I know what my answer to the officer's question is going to be.

"Yes, I do."

**H50*H50*H50**

A new job pops up on the interface in the cab just as we're passing junction twenty-five on the Lunalilo Freeway, heading South East towards Diamond Head. We're back on the road after what has got to be the quickest lunch break we've ever had. And when I say 'lunch break', I mean the six minutes it took me to scarf down some more Motrin and a gas station hotdog.

"We're going to Waahila Ridge," Heather says, accepting the job. "Thirty-six year old male. Query head injury, query loss of consciousness." Leaning forwards to flip on the lights and sirens, she points to the next turn off and says, "Come off here. We can take 5th onto Waialae."

The road we're following to the recreation area starts to climb almost as soon as we leave Waialea Avenue. The houses peter out as we travel higher until the only things that surround us are trees. A patrol car is waiting for us at a fork in the road a little further up and the officer motions for me to roll down my window when we pull up beside him.

"Once you're through the trees, take the second road on the left and follow the service trail until you hit the clearing. They're waiting for you there. Someone will show you where to go," he says, pointing us towards the bank of trees ahead.

The winding service trail is barely wide enough for the rig; the lower branches of the trees on either side of us scrape along the bus's sides as we drive and I wince, imagining the look on our watch commander's face when he sees the damaged paintwork.

"There." Heather points ahead to where the trees have been stained blue by the lights of the gathered emergency vehicles. Unclipping her safety belt, she perches on the edge of her seat while I guide the rig into a space between a marked patrol car and a red Chevy Cruz. As soon as I shift into park, she's out and sliding open the side door to grab her kit bag. She holds mine out to me when I climb in beside her and I swing it up onto my shoulder and pull on a pair of gloves before jumping back out in the clearing.

"This way, guys," a uniform says, gesturing towards a gap in the trees behind us. It's just about wide enough for a car to get through but the floor is littered with leaves and exposed roots, which rise from the ground like gnarled fingers, making it tricky to navigate. We follow him about twenty-five meters off the trail into another, smaller clearing. There's a Traverse sitting at one side with its front bumped hanging off and it's grille lights flashing. At the other is a dilapidated wooden hut, complete with rickety porch, that I'm guessing used to be a ranger's station or supply shed.

Our patient is sitting on the top step of the porch with his head in his hands while an older Asian man crouches beside him and I recognize the blond hair almost instantly despite the addition of a little blood and what I'm guessing is plant matter from the forest floor. The other man is a little trickier to place so it's not until I get a little closer that his dark hair and loud printed shirt click.

"Lieutenant Kelly?"

He glances up when I address him and then pats Danny's shoulder. "EMS are here, brah." Standing, he motions for us to follow him and then leads us a few feet away before he gestures to Danny and says, "He got clipped by a local dealer's getaway car, went down pretty hard."  
Heather asks, "Did he lose consciousness at all?" and Kelly nods, and runs a hand up over his face.  
"Yeah. He was out for about a minute."

We head back over to Danny armed this new information - as much as we're going to get, apparently - while Lieutenant Kelly walks off in the direction of the service trail with his phone pressed to his ear. Since both Steve and Kono are noticeable absent, I'm guessing he's calling to update them on Danny's condition. Or maybe it's the other way round and they're calling him to say they've caught the guy that ran Danny over?

"Detective?" Heather crouches down and gently tugs one of Danny's hands away from his face. "Detective, it's Heather. Can you tell me what happened?"  
Danny squints up at her blearily and mumbles, "I dunno. My head hurts."  
The pressure cuff is wrapped around the detective's bicep and then Heather unhooks her stethoscope from around her neck. "Can you remember hitting your head at all?" she asks, pressing the bell to the skin just above the crook of Danny's elbow but underneath the inflated cuff.  
"I'm not sure," Danny decides after a few seconds. "Don't remember."  
"That's okay," I tell him, patting his arm kindly as Heather removes her stethoscope and hooks it back over her neck.

"Pressure's fine," she says, noting the numbers down on the back on her glove. "Can you take over? I'm going to go grab the stretcher."  
I nod and stand to swap places with her. Crouching down where Heather was, I pull the pressure cuff from around the detective's arm and ask, "How're you doing, Danny? Still with me?"  
"Yeah," he mutters, bringing a shaky hand up to rub at his forehead. "Feel sick, though."  
"That can happen with concussions. Try breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth – that should help. I can get you some Compazine if it doesn't." Pulling my penlight from my pocket, I reach for his chin. "I'm going to check your pupils - look straight ahead for me."

Danny's right pupil is completely blown; there's only a sliver of blue visible when I check to see if his pupil are equal and it doesn't react when I shine my penlight in it. I'm not really surprised because Danny's showing a few of the symptoms of a concussion – slurred speech, unequal pupils, a massive goose egg on his forehead – but if I'm honest, the thing that's got me the most concerned is how lethargic he is. The Danny Williams I know is constantly in motion. The man finds it almost physically impossible to talk without using his hands so it's a little disconcerting to see him moving like he's stuck in a vat of treacle: slowly and overly deliberate.

"God…" Danny moans and sucks in a breath as I click off my penlight and shove it back in my pocket. Leaning forwards, he swallows hard and then gags.  
"Deep breaths," I remind him, patting his back awkwardly as he coughs and splutters into the dirt. "Try to relax. Tensing is only going to make it worse."  
"Can't," he mutters breathlessly in between heaves. "Gonna ruin my streak."

"Streak?" I glance over my shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Heather's blue and navy uniform through the trees. She's been gone a while – I guess maneuvering the stretcher across the rutted forest – or should that be jungle? – floor is proving harder than she anticipated.  
Oh no, wait… There she is. And she's drafted in two of the uniforms to help her carry the gurney. Smart thinking. Maybe they'll stick around and help us on the way back, too.

Danny still hasn't answered my question by the time I turn back so I ask "Danny, what streak?" again as I get started rechecking his vitals, pressing my fingertips into the underside of his wrist while he mutters something about May '96 under his breath and swallows convulsively between sentences. When I go to recheck his pupils, he moans and pulls away.

"Ugh…" Pitching forwards, he gags and retches into the dirt between his feet. There's not a lot I can do other than wait for him to finish throwing up. It's a good thing I have a strong stomach because Danny pukes the way he talks – loudly. Sighing, I concentrate on rubbing soothing circles over his lower back while I wait for Heather and her helpers to set the gurney down beside us.

"Do you need a hand back?" the taller of the two uniform asks, watching Heather lock the metal frame into position and unfasten the bright orange safety straps. She nods and says, "Give us a minute to get the detective settled and I'll tell you what I need you to do."

"Okay, Danny, let's get you lying down." Climbing to my feet, I brush the dirt from the back of my pants and between us, Heather and I manage to haul the detective to his feet. Keeping him there long enough to navigate the three steps between the porch and the gurney proves to be a little trickier, though. We stagger under his weight when he sways precariously at the top of the steps and I end up calling out to the two uniforms as we fight to stop him falling forwards.

"Guys, a little help here, please?"

Thankfully, they both come running and duck under Danny's arms just in time to stop us dropping him. It sounds pretty bad, but I have actually dropped a patient before and, just between you and me, the looks I got from the people watching made me like an incompetent idiot. I mean, never mind the fact that I saved the guys life (he collapsed onto a bar stool mid-heart attack and the way he was slumped effectively cut off his air supply) by opening his airway so he could breathe and then made sure he didn't choke on his own vomit – everyone was more concerned that he went down like a rock when I tried to lift him out of the chair. Now, in my defense, he was a dead weight and surely it's better to have a sore butt than to be dead. Right?

The uniforms lift Danny down the steps and then help ease him down onto the stretcher. Heather kneels down to secure the safety straps around his waist and his legs while I grab the kit bags and swing my own up onto my back. Heather does the same with hers and then starts positioning the two officers either side of Danny's head. We do the same at his feet and then Heather says, "Okay, up on three. One, two, three…"

Together, we lift the stretcher up off the ground and Heather and I lead the way through the trees, trying not the bump it with our legs as we walk. It's harder than it looks; several times, I catch my foot on an exposed root and stumble, knocking the stretcher with my thigh. It's a relief when the ground turns smooth beneath our feet and we start to climb the slight incline into the clearing where we left the rig.

It looks more like a parking lot than a forest park now; there are patrol cars parked two deep (they've left us enough room to get out this time) and a white van with 'Hononlulu Police Department Scientific Investigation Section' on the side is sitting off to our right with both of it's door lying wide open. Its occupants - the crime scene investigators - nod as they pass us on their way to the spot where Danny got hurt.

I can hear the wail of yet another siren drawing closer as we navigate our way between the parked cars and then, about thirty second later and in true SuperSEAL style, Steve's blue Silverado truck comes skidding around the corner, grille lights flashing. He slides to a halt beside the white CSI van and then both he and Kono are out of their seats and running.

"Hey, grab the door, would you?" Heather calls out to them as we reach the red Cruz that's parked beside us. Kono drops to a halt when she draws level with her cousin but Steve keeps going, sprinting round to the back of the rig to pull open the back door as we carefully lower Danny to the floor. I jump into the back of the bus to lower the ramp while Heather busies herself with the catches on the stretcher frame once more.  
"Thanks for your help, guys," she says to the two uniforms as we raise the stretcher to waist height and lock it in place again. "We're good from here."

Steve watches from the sidelines as we raise the head of the stretcher and rolls Danny up the ramp into the back of the bus; the gurney frame folds under the bed when it slides onto the rollers that are built into the ambulance's floor and then it locks into place with a quiet _snick_. While I shove the kit bags back into their lockers, Heather smoothes a light blue blanket over Danny's legs and then sets an emesis basin on the bed by his hand. "Just in case," she tells him before settling herself down on the bench seat across from him to write up the handover sheet for when we get to the ER.

Steve's hovering impatiently just outside the doors when I turn back from storing our kit away and he looks up at me with concern etched on his face when I appear in the doorway.  
"He's okay. You can go in and sit with him if you want," I say as I lift the ramp and jump down next to him. I'm expecting the former SEAL to leap up the steps in a single bound but his eyes find the purple-red mark high on my cheek and he takes a step towards me instead.  
"What happened to your face?"

I raise a hand to my cheek, suddenly conscious of the bruising around my eye. I noticed it starting to come out when I nipped into the bathroom at the gas station and I ended up cursing like a trooper when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink.  
"It's nothing. A patient got a little rowdy, that's all. I'm fine," I mutter, feeling my face go hot under the scrutiny of Steve's gaze. "I better get on. Heather will pull one of the chairs down for you."

"Chloe, wait…" Steve wraps a hand around my wrist as I turn to leave. "Did you at least report them to HPD? Even if you don't want to file charges, they can make a note of the assault on the person's record."

"HPD was there – the guy was already under arrest for attacking a tourist when he hit me." Tugging my arm out of Steve's grip, I say, "Look, Steve, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine - my eye doesn't even hurt anymore. I just want to finish my shift so I can go home, scrub the smell of baby sick out of my hair and my shirt, and forget today ever happened."

Ah, babies… Adorable little puke machines with legs. And yes, that may sound a little cynical but I spent almost an hour and a half covered in sick this morning after Mommy's Little Angel projectile upchucked all over my shirt. By the time we took Mom and little Seth to Kapi'olani Women's and Children's Hospital and then drove back to the depot, it had soaked right through into my bra and I ended up having to squeeze myself into one of Heather's size two crop tops because I'd forgotten to replace the spare I usually keep in my locker. I got stuck trying to pull it down over my chest and had to be rescued by Jill, one of the quick response medics.

Whoever said the life of a paramedic was glamorous lied. I find it kind of funny now because pretty much everybody I talked to before starting this job told me how exciting it was, how every day was different and that you never knew what you were going to find when you pulled up to a scene. Not one person mentioned being puked on or bled all over or smacked in the face. Not one.

Surprisingly, Steve grimaces when I mention having to wash the vomit out of my hair.  
I mean, the idea of having to scrub someone else's stomach contents out of your clothes isn't exactly a pleasant one but I would have thought that it paled in comparison to some of the things he would have seen as a SEAL on active duty. Part of me is wondering if it's because he feels sorry for me – getting puked on and punched on the same day tends to do that – but for all I know he could just be squeamish.

Rubbing a hand up over my face – making sure to avoid the bruises – I gesture toward the open door and say, "You better get in there if you want to see Danny before we leave. No, wait, let me guess…" I hold my hand up when he opens his mouth to interrupt. "You're coming with us."  
I guess it's one of the unwritten rules of having a partner: When your partner is injured, you ride with them to the hospital whether the EMTs want you to or not because it's your job to watch their six.  
"Heather will tell you where to sit," I say, waiting until he's pulled himself up into the back of the rig before I step forwards to close the back door behind him.

Sliding in behind the wheel, I start the engine and fasten my safety belt before turning in my seat to look through the small window behind me. "Ready?" I ask, shifting into gear. When Heather gives me the thumbs up, I ease the rig across the clearing and onto the service trail, and follow the brake lights of a retreating patrol car back through the trees towards the road.

"You okay, man?" I hear Steve ask, as I turn right onto Peter Street and follow the sweeping curve down into the Palolo Valley towards Honolulu.  
"Feels like my brain's leaking out my ears," is Danny's surprisingly eloquent reply.

"I can gove you some Tylenol to take the edge off," Heather offers. The metallic click that comes next tells me she's unclipped her seatbelt to rummage through the kit bags for the over-the-counter painkillers. If it doesn't make a dent in Danny's pain, then the ER doc will prescribe him something stronger, such as Percocet or Demerol.  
"How's the nausea?" my partner asks, securing the locker door above Danny's head. "Still there?" I'm guessing the answer is yes because she continues, "Okay, let's see how you get on with the Tylenol just now and if the nausea doesn't improve, we'll get some Phenergan on board."

Heather settles herself back on the bench seat and there's silence for a while as I guide the rig down the curving streets towards the H1 and the Queens Medical Center. I've just joined the freeway when Steve says, "Hey, Danno?"

"Yeah?"

"Nausea?"

"Yeah…"

There's a pause and then Steve asks, "So, your streak?"

"Dead as a Dodo. Just like that's driver's going to be when I find him."


	13. Chapter 8

_Sorry... This chapter was so hard to write that I ended up starting from scratch a couple of times. But it's done now and I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations._ _I'll start posting the sister story after the next chapter is done and up._

_Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to read, favourite, follow and review. It's much appreciated. _

_And finally, I'm (still) not a doctor, this chapter is un-beta'ed and any and all mistakes are my own. :)_

* * *

It's _finally_ the end of the shift from hell.

I'm in the back of the rig wiping down the surfaces when Yoda announces '_a new text you have' _from the depths of the Minions tote that's been pressed into service as my handbag. Setting my cleaning stuff down, I pull my phone from its little zip pouch, expecting the message to be Kati asking if I want to meet her for a quick dinner once I've finished here. It's not; instead, the text is from McGarrett, letting me know how Danny's doing.

'_Admitted for observation tonight',_ the message reads. _'At least the company's not so bad…'_

Under the text is a photo; Grace is beaming up at the camera from where she's sitting snuggled into Danny's side on his hospital bed, holding a Harry Potter book. Take away the ugly diamond-patterned gown the detective is wearing and they look like they could be in Grace's room or on the couch at home, not sitting in a hospital with only the Boy Who Lived and SuperSEAL for company.

Smiling, I text back _'Fingers crossed for the all-clear tomorrow (And those better not be your dirty boots I see on the bed!)'. _Then I stand, shove my phone in my pocket and go back to my cleaning. By the time Heather reappears from filing our paperwork with the watch commander, I've only got the door handles left to do.  
"What have you got planned for tonight?" I ask a few minutes later as I check the internal safe one last time and then jump down from the back of the rig.  
"Just the usual," my partner replies with a shrug. "Help Ross with dinner and then spend some time with the kids before they go to bed."

Heather has two kids – ten-year-old Kalani and Matthew who just turned seven. When she's on day shift, she leaves the house the kids are awake and only gets home about an hour before Matty's bedtime so her husband, Ross, fits the school run in around his job as a self-employed landscape gardener. Nightshift is a little easier – Heather stays up when she gets in in the morning and then goes to bed once she's driven the kids to school.

"I've barely seen the kids this week, what with being on shift and the kids' extra-curricular activities," Heather sighs as we cross the garage and head inside to sign in our radio and keys. "It's my turn to do the school run next week so I'll hopefully get to see them for more than an hour a day. What about you, Chloe, anything nice planned?"  
"Not really, unless you count slobbing out on the couch in front of the TV."  
My partner smiles wistfully as she watches me hand everything over to control room supervisor. "That sounds like heaven. The kids are obsessed with Hannah Montana and Sponge Bob so that's what we usually end up watching."

I'm really looking forwards to having a quiet night in tonight. Katie's going to some corporate event tonight so my plans consist of ordering takeout, pouring myself a large glass of wine and soaking in a steaming hot bath until the sour milky smell that's lingering in my nostrils is replaced with something a little bit more pleasant. Then I'm going to put on a clean pair of jammies and my ratty old Jack Skellington, and eat Ben and Jerry's straight from the tub while I watch The Nightmare Before Christmas.

I lead the way down the hall to the locker room once I've signed the radio and key logs. My partner sinks down onto the bench in the middle of the room with a sigh and then bends over to unlace her boots while I pull my soiled shirt and bra out of my locker and bundle them under my arm. I'll need to replace my spares before I come back on shift tomorrow night in case we have a repeat of the baby sick situation; it was bad enough having to wait an hour and a half to change and run a wet wipe over my arms and chest – I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn't had spare clothes. Just… yuck.

Both of us are parked in the structure across the street so we walk over together and Heather swipes her card at the pedestrian entrance to give us access. When the door clicks open I follow her into the stairwell and start the climb to the fourth floor. Yoda pipes up again as I'm hauling myself up the final flight but I wait until I'm at my car before I pull my phone out of my pocket because I can't afford to get the screen replaced should I accidentally drop it (again) after paying for flights home to Illinois (roll on November), Grace's birthday present and presents for my brother's baby. Admittedly, I went a little overboard buying clothes for my new niece (yes, it's a girl!) but I found this adorable little baby-grow with 'I love my' and a picture of an ant underneath and couldn't resist.

Steve has texted back '_can neither confirm nor deny_' in reply to my boots-on-the-bed scolding. There's a little winking smiley face at the end, which I'm guessing is Grace's doing. Steve doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who uses emojis.  
"What are you smiling at?" Heather pushes up onto her tiptoes to peer nosily over my shoulder. Frowning, she asks, "Why is McGarrett texting you?"  
"It's not what you think," I mutter, hastily swiping my thumb across the message to delete it as my partner leans back against the trunk of my Camry and folds her arms over her chest.  
"And what exactly is it you think I'm thinking?"

"So, let me see if I've got this right," she says a few minutes later once I've filled her in. "He asked you out to dinner to thank you for babysitting Williams' kid when he – _McGarrett_ – got hit by a car, but then he cancelled on you because of work so you went and hooked up with your ex instead. Did I get that right?"  
"I didn't hook up with Eddie because Steve cancelled on me…" I protest but Heather just rolls her eyes.  
"Okay well, either way, you should seriously consider writing a soap opera based on your life because wow…."

"Helpful. Thank you," I huff as I start to dig around in my bag for my car keys. "I'm going home. See you tomorrow." I move to brush past my partner but she snag my shirtsleeve and then slides down from where she'd pushed herself up to perch on the lip of the trunk.  
"What are you going to do about your ex?" she asks. "Have you talked to him?"  
Sighing, I rub a hand up over my face and tell her, "At this point, I'd rather jump off a cliff into the Pacific and take my chances with the Great White that was spotted off Waianae a few days ago."

When I get home Katie's on the couch in her robe and her long dark hair is pinned up into an elegant chignon ready for her work do later on. Her pretty face twists in dismay when she turns to greet me and then spots the bruising beneath my eye, and she scrambles off the couch as I shrug my bag off my shoulder and head into the kitchen to pour myself a stiff drink.  
"What the hell happened?"  
"Someone hit me," I tell her once I've downed the contents of my glass and poured myself another. "It's fine, I can barely feel it now."  
"Shit," Katie mutters. "I hope you returned the favor."  
"Not allowed. And technically, the guy was under arrest at the time." Sighing, I rub a hand up over my face and then turn to set my empty glass in the sink. "I'm going to go take a bath. Are you going to be here for a little while yet?"  
"Probably - I still need to get dressed and do my makeup," my roommate replies, offering me a wry smile. "Got to look my best for all the corporate bigwigs my boss are trying to schmooze."

I spend a good thirty minutes soaking in a steaming hot bath filled with coconut scented bubbles and by the time I get out, I feel almost human again. My wet hair gets twisted up in a messy topknot and then I wipe the mirror where it's steamed up and tie my robe belt a little tighter before heading out into the hall. Katie's standing in front of the tall mirror in the corner the living room and she adjusts herself in her stunning blue body-con dress before pointing to the earrings she borrowed from the jewelry box in my closet.  
"Can I borrow these?"  
"If you must," I tell her as I sink down onto the couch and tuck my bare feet up under my body. Spotting my phone lying on coffee table, I frown. "What were you doing with my phone? I left it charging in my room."  
"Hmm?" Katie glances up from where she's admiring my diamond studs in the mirror. "Oh, it rang while I was in there so I answered it. Someone called Grier - or was it Grayson? – was looking for you."  
"Do you mean Grace?"  
Katie cocks a finger at me and then turns back to the mirror to wipe away an imaginary blob of mascara. "That's the one. I told her you'd call her back. Who is she, anyways? She sounded like Minnie Mouse on helium."  
"That's because she's just a kid."

Grabbing my phone, I stand and head back along the hall to call Grace from the privacy of my bedroom. Katie follows me, firing questions at the back of my head even as I flop down onto my bed face-first. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" I grumble into my pillow when the mattress dips down near my hip.  
"Not right this minute." My roommate carefully lowers herself onto the bed and tenses until she's sure her dress is going to hold; it's so tight that one wrong move could cause the zip at the back to burst. When she doesn't hear the material rip, she sinks back against my quilted velvet headboard with a sigh. "So, are you going to tell me who this kid is, or not?" she asks, pulling at a loose stitch at the corner of the throw pillow she's cradling in her lap.

"She's the daughter of one of the guys I work with. Detective Williams."  
"He's the little blond guy I saw on the TV the other day, right?" my roommate asks as I flop over onto my back and roll my head across my pillow to look at her. "Commander Sexy Pants' partner…"  
"Yes." I scowl at her. "And don't call him that. I'd like to be able to look him in the eye when I see him at work."

"He _is_ hot, though. Williams, too," Katie smirks. "I wouldn't say no to either of them, put it that way." Glancing down at her watch, she continues, "Right, I'd better get going if I'm going to get there for eight thirty. My boss will flip if I'm late. One of the potential investors we've been wooing for months is flying in from Dubai just for this party – I spent all day running round the whole island trying to find somewhere that sells this really expensive Krug champagne he likes just in case the crate of Dom Perignon they ordered isn't good enough. He better appreciate all the effort I went to, that's all I'm saying."

Katie's dress is still intact by the time she flop-rolls herself off the bed onto her feet, and I can't help but grin when I catch a glimpse of her waddling down the hall to grab her clutch purse and shoes from her room. "A word of advice," I call after her, leaning over to grab my phone from where it's fallen off the side of the bed. "If you can't walk in your dress without waddling like a duck, it's too tight."  
She makes me snort with laughter when she yells back, "There's no such thing, Chloe Sweeting, and you know it!"

Grace called me from Steve's phone and when I call him, he answers on the third ring. There's music playing softly and the low buzz of chatter in the background so he's obviously not at the hospital with Danny anymore.  
"Hey, is Grace still there with you? My roommate said she called earlier," I say, pushing myself up to sit. My pillow gets pulled out from underneath me and tossed to the side as I lean back against my headboard and pull my knees up to my chest.  
"Yeah, she's here," he replies, sounding more relaxed than he has in days. "Hang on, I'll pass you over."

I run my finger over a scar on my ankle – from a blister courtesy on my work boots during the breaking-in period – while I wait for Steve to give the phone to Grace. I wonder what she wants? We've only met once and it wasn't exactly how I imagined it would be – who in their right mind ever imagines having to look after a distraught seven year old in the wake of a car accident? You just don't.

There's a lot of whispering going on on the other end of the line - Well, Grace is whispering. Steve's just talking a little quieter than normal – and part of me wishes they'd hurry up so I can plant myself in front of the TV with a glass of vino. After a minute or so, the whispers die down but instead of Grace it's Steve I end up hearing.  
"Grace wants to know if you're –" There's a sudden flurry of indignant whispers and a pause before he clears his throat and continues, "Sorry – _Grace and I_ would like to know if you're doing anything?"

Frowning, I let my legs slide down over the top of my comforter. "What, like right now?" It's a little short notice but other than that, I'm not quite sure why I'm hesitating. Well, actually no, I do – it's because I have the apartment to myself tonight and, as much as I love Katie, I'm kind of looking forwards to being able to watch TV without her providing a running commentary. On the other hand, it's not like Jack and Sally won't still be here when I get back and Katie won't be back until the wee hours so I could go out, and then watch my movie went I get back; and since I'm going onto nights tomorrow, I don't have to worry about staying up too late because I can sleep as long as I want in the morning. It's a win-win situation.

"Yeah, I'm free. What were you guys thinking?"

"How about dinner?" Steve suggests as I shuffle forwards and swing my legs over the side of my bed. "I still owe you for the other day and I told Grace's mom we'd eat before I drop her off. The only thing is, I kind of promised Grace I'd take her to see the dolphins so – "  
"The Hilton is fine," I interrupt, walking over to my door when I hear Katie's heels tap-tap-tapping along the laminate flooring in the hall. Sticking my head out, I motion for her to wait a second as I tell Steve, "Give me fifteen, twenty minutes. I need to get changed and dry my hair, otherwise it will be completely unmanageable in the morning."

"Hot date?" Katie comes to lean against my doorframe as I duck back into my room, already halfway out of my robe. It gets flung onto the bed as I head over to the dresser for a bra and panties that don't have _Bazinga_ stamped across the ass.  
"_No_… It's just dinner. Could you give me a ride to the Hilton?" I ask, hopping around as I try to pull her seriously low-riding skinny jeans (the same ones I wore to Side Street) a smidge higher on my hips. Once they're zipped and buttoned, I hold up two tops. "Which one?  
"The black tank." She takes the other one from me and tosses it on the bed on top of my robe before checking her watch. "We need to leave in, like, three minutes," she warns before disappearing back along the hall to check the full effect of her makeup, dress and heels in the mirror in the living room.

Three minutes means I have to settle for scraping my hair back into a slightly neater bun and slapping a bit of concealer onto my bruises. My mascara goes in my pocket along with my phone as I thrust my bare feet into the first pair of flat shoes I find. I leave the laces undone – I'll do them in the car – and hurry down the hall to the kitchen to grab some money and my keys.

"Chloe!"  
Grace pushes out her chair and runs to meet me when she spots me weaving my way through the tables at the Hilton Hawaiian Village's poolside bar. Her rather over-enthusiastic greeting nearly knocks me on my ass and I laugh as I return the young girl's hug. "Hi, Sweetheart. I'm sorry I took so long to get here."

There was an accident on the H1 heading towards Pearl City and two of the lanes ground to a standstill not long after we joined. Katie was practically hyperventilating about being late by the time we had crawled as far as the off-ramp for the Moanalua Freeway so I ended up getting a cab here from the Marriott, which is where Katie's party is being held. My fifteen to twenty minutes ended up being more like forty-five.

"We had to order without you," Grace says, wrapping a hand around my wrist and proceeding to tug me along behind her. "I wanted to wait but Uncle Steve said no."  
"That's okay. I should have let you know I was running late," I tell her as we quickly slip past a rather rowdy table near the bar and continue around the side of the pool to where Steve's sitting. "So, was your dad surprised to see you earlier?"  
"Uhuh… He said it was the best surprise _ever_."

Grace loosens her grip when we reach the table but she doesn't let go. "Sit next to me," she begs, tugging me round the table until I'm stood with her on my left and Steve on my right.  
"Sorry, I murmur, offering Steve an apologetic smile as I pull my chair up to the table. "The traffic was horrendous – I would have been quicker walking here. Grace said you ordered already…?"  
"Yeah. Sorry." Steve leans forwards to set his beer bottle down on the table and then pushes himself up, saying, "I'll go get you a menu. What are you drinking?"  
"Beer, please. Anything is fine."

I order a burger and fries to go with the Longboard Steve brings me. I smile my thanks to the waitress as she sets a heaped plate down in front of me and then get to work stacking my onions ring on top of the bacon rasher and pineapple ring on my burger patties while Grace tucks into her angel hair pasta. My burger tower is hallway to my mouth when I realize Steve is watching me with a mildly horrified expression on his face. I'm sure you know the one – like, when you see a snake devouring a poor little helpless mouse and you want t look away but physically can't?  
Like that.

"What?"  
Steve leans back in his seat. "What do you mean, _what?_ That thing is like ninety-nine percent cholesterol. I can hear your arteries hardened from here."  
"My arteries are just fine, _thank you," _I retort, pointedly taking a large bite out of my burger stack. I may not run a half marathon every morning before work like _some people _but I still get plenty of exercise. You try lugging all of my equipment and the stretcher up six flights of stairs and then tell me I'm not fit. Anyways, I _deserve_ something nice after the day I've had.

Only… Well, it's kind of hard to enjoy my food when a guy, who eats like a ninety-year-old man with no teeth most of the time, is judging me over it. It's enough to give a girl a complex.  
"I'm done," I mutter, dropping my half-eaten burger onto my plate. I shove it into the middle of the table and then flop back in my chair as Grace looks up from where she's twirling angel hair pasta around her fork like a pro. She eyes my discarded plate curiously before he gaze flicks across the table to her uncle, who looks rather bemused by my sudden change of heart.  
"Is it not good?" Grace asks, wrinkling her nose. "You can have some of my pasta, if you want." She goes to move her bowl into the space between us, but I stop her by laying a hand on her forearm.  
"I'm okay, Sweetie, but thanks for the offer." I lean forwards to snag my Longboard off the table and then whisper conspiratorially, "I might steal some of your uncle's fish, though."

Grinning, the young girl whispers back, "Uncle Steve doesn't share food."  
"Unless it's blue M&amp;Ms, right?" I say with a wink, remembering the story she told me about Mr. Big Bad Navy SEAL saving his blue M&amp;Ms for her.  
"Oh, yeah…" Grace says, pausing her fork twirling momentarily before she snickers and tells me, "This one time, Auntie Kono stole a cookie off his plate and Uncle Steve chased her all the way down the beach to get it back."  
When I twist to look at Steve for confirmation, he shrugs and says, "I didn't chase her _all_ the way down the beach."  
"You didn't?" I drain my beer bottle and motion for him to elaborate.  
"She only got as far as next door," he eventually admits with a smirk as Grace dissolves into a fit of giggles behind me. "I may have tackled her. But, in my defense, they were _really_ good cookies."

Grace slides onto Steve knee as I'm finishing my third beer.  
"Tired?" he asks, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind the young girl's ear. When she nods, he asks, "Do you want to go?"  
"Yeah," she mumbles. "Can we still see the dolphins? You promised."  
When the waitress brings the check, she takes that as he cue to slide down from her perch and I slip a few bills out of my pocket, and slide them across the table. Steve shakes his head and pushes them back, saying, "I've got it" as he pulls his wallet from the pocket of his cargos. He drops a few notes onto the silver tray and then stands. Once he's upright, Grace holds her arms up – the universal gesture for 'pick me up' – and Steve settles her on his hip with a practiced ease.

"Coming?" he asks when we reach the winding path that leads down through the gardens to the man-made cove that houses the Hilton's small pod of dolphins. When I motion for him to lead the way, Grace smiles sleepily from where she's resting her head against Super SEAL's shoulder.  
I feel decidedly tipsy as I carefully pick my way along the dimly-lit path in their wake but I still nearly end up on my knees when I catch the toe of my Chuck Taylors on a raised paving block. Thankfully, Steve grabs my arm before I can do any damage.  
"Careful, you don't need any more bruises," he grumbles, hauling my upright as though I barely weight anything (if only), and then setting me back on my feet. Cringing, I mutter 'thanks' and quickly lean down to brush the dirt from the bottom of Katie's jeans.

After that, I make it down to the dolphin pool without further incident. The pool itself has been cordoned off to stop people wandering in unsupervised but there's a sort of raised platform where we can look down over the fake crop of rocks and watch as a member of staff throws fish into the water in return for a trick.  
"Okay, I think its time I took this one home," Steve says a few minutes later when Gracie yawns and rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand. Bumping her up higher on his hip, he leads the way back along the winding path up to the hotel and when we get there he holds the door open for a group of elderly women, who all coo over how adorable our 'little family' is. Steve just smiles politely instead of correcting them and when I open my mouth to do it for him, he kicks me in the shin and tells the women 'have a good night, ladies', while I scowl and rub at the sore spot on the front of my leg.

"I'm sorry, but no way do I look old enough to have an almost eight-year-old kid," I grumble as Steve and I walk through the hotel lobby towards the main entrance. "I would have had to have her when I was _fifteen_… They need their eyes tested, every one of them. Stop laughing, you… _Neanderthal." _Fighting a smile of my own, I lean over and thump him squarely in the thigh to make my displeasure known, and then duck into an empty revolving door enclosure to head outside.  
A cool breeze dances around my bare ankles as I pull my phone from my pocket and then perch myself on a boulder just along from the valet stand. It's only nine thirty so there's no point in head back to the Marriott because a) Katie's party will only just have started and there's no way I'll be allowed in because b) I'm not on the guest list and c) even if I was invited, I couldn't go in wearing a tank top and jeans. There's a distinct lack of cabs at the rank down the road so, climbing down off my rock, I head over to the doorman to see if he'll order one for me.

"I'm going to Moanalua. Ala Kapuna Street," I tell him as Steve wanders over and digs a slip of paper out of his pocket. Grace is now fast asleep in his arms, her head lolling on his shoulder.  
"I'll give you a ride," he offers as he hands his ticket stub to the doorman, who eyes the former SEAL suspiciously before ducking down to look in the safe box underneath his stand; Steve's not wearing his badge – or his gun, for that matter – so for all the doorman knows, he could a total creep looking to scam on a (slightly tipsy) young woman who's out on her own. It's both incredibly sweet and hysterical at the same time, so when he reappears holding the keys to the Silverado, I flash him a grateful smile and say, "The commander and I work together."

It only takes a few minutes for one of the attendants to bring Steve's truck round from the parking garage and Steve gets Grace buckled in in the back while the doorman helps me up into the passenger seat. He smiles and tips his hat when I push $20 into his hand as a thank you for looking out for me.  
"Ready?" Steve asks, shifting the truck into drive. Leaning back in my seat, I wave a hand in the air and tell him, "Take me home, Jeeves."

Danny's ex-wife and her new husband live in Kailua in a large house hidden behind high walls and a wrought iron gate, which is lying out when Steve pulls up to the curb outside. He leaves the engine running as he ducks into the back to gather a still sleeping Grace in his arms and when he disappears into the grounds of the Edwards' sprawling McMansion, I slouch down in my seat and close my eyes. I don't open them again until we pull up outside my apartment building in Moanalua and Steve gently nudges me awake.  
"Home, sweet home," I murmur, rolling my neck to work out a kink as I reach down to undo my safety belt. Opening the door, I look back over my shoulder and smile as I tell Steve, "Thanks for dinner. I had a nice time."

On the spur of the moment, I lean across the trucks center divide and press a kiss to his cheek. My lips tingle when I pull away and it sounds ridiculous, I know, but my heart is suddenly beating so fast I'm sure it's going to burst right out of my chest as I hover in the cramped space between the driver's seat and the roof. I'm scared to move in case the spell breaks and the butterflies I'm feeling turn out to be indigestion, or something equally as soul-destroying, but then Steve reaches up to cup the back of my neck and all I can think is _fuck it_ as I lean down and kiss him.


	14. Chapter 9

**_*Repost*_**

_Sorry... Been super busy with the horses (dad is away so I have all four to do myself and my big guy needed clipped for a show this weekend... Yada yada...). Anyways, I've tweaked this chapter a little bit, hence why it was taken down... _

_Thank you all for the (mostly) lovely comments. It's nice to know that Chloe is loved. :)_

_And... *drum roll* The first chapter of my sister story is now up! It's called Ahonui (Be patient, Tolerate) and I hope it (eventually) lives up to everyone's expectations._

* * *

The next morning, I roll over in bed and frown when my cheek comes to rest against something warm. It registers, somewhere in the fog that comes between sleep and waking, that I should probably open my eyes and try to figure out who's chest I'm drooling on but the weight of the (I assume) guy's arm around my waist feels so natural that I can't bring myself to move just yet. Breathing out through my nose, I hum softly and shift when a hand comes up to gently draw my hair away from my face.

"Chloe?"

"Hmm…" I force my eyes open and then tilt my head up to see who's chest I've inadvertently turned into my own personal pillow. When piercing blue eyes meet mine, I smile and mumble, "Hi," against Steve's collarbone.

"Hey," he replies, chuckling when I use his stomach to clumsily push myself up and then settle my head in the crook of his neck. "Comfy?"

"Yeah, you make a good pillow," I sigh, letting my eyes slide shut again.

I'm not sure how much time passes before Steve shifts - a few minutes, maybe? – but I'm on the verge on sleep and I mumble "Don't move," under my breath when the movement causes my head to slip down over his collarbone onto his chest.

"As much as I would love to stay here all day and snuggle with you, I have to go to work. I have a meeting with the governor this afternoon."

Blinking, I rub at my eyes and then push myself upright, clutching the sheet to chest as I scan the room for my clothes; they're sitting on a chair in the corner, neatly folded, and my shoes have been lined up in the space underneath. "I'll get out of your hair and let you get ready," I say, moving to swing my legs over the side of the bed. But Steve grabs hold of the sheet before I can stand and pulls me back down beside him, pinning my wrists against the mattress and pressing his chest into mine.

"You don't have to go just now," he says, nudging my chin back so he can kiss my neck. "Stay. Sleep a little longer."

"Isn't a little early to be leaving me alone in your house?" I ask as he trails kisses across my collarbone and then continues down my sternum, between my breast and over my stomach. "Steve… I thought you had to go to work."

"I do. In a minute," he murmurs, crawling back up my body to capture my lips. The kiss is oddly sweet and I end up wrapping my arms around his neck just as one of our cell phones lights up and starts to vibrate across the top of the nightstand to my left.

"Don't answer it. You can call them back in a few minutes."

"It might be the governor."

Leaning over me, Steve grabs the phone off the nightstand before it can work its way over the edge onto the floor and he brings it with him when he shifts to lie on his side with his head propped on his hand. Holding it up so I can see the screen, he raises an eyebrow as he says, "You might want to let your friend know you're okay."

Frowning, I take the phone from him and wince when I see I have six missed calls and numerous texts from Katie. They range from the standard _'Hey, where are you?'_ to the slightly more snarky '_Okay, it's been, like, four hours and I still haven't heard from you so I'm going to assume you're busy bonking Commander Sexy-pants' brains out and not lying in a ditch somewhere until someone tells me otherwise._"  
The last one simply reads '_CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THI_S' and I groan when I realize she must have stayed up waiting for me to either get in touch or come home.

"Shit."

While I silently berate myself for being a bad friend, Steve slides out of bed and pads across the room to the en-suite, clad only in a pair of boxer shorts. Turning on the shower, he leaves me to stare up at the ceiling as I try to figure out what I'm going to do to fix things with my roommate. I _really_ hope that she won't be too pissed with me and I even contemplate telling her that I took her advice and made the first move because I know she'll cave as soon as she figures out Steve and I slept together. When I hear the shower i shut off a minute or so later I hurriedly push up onto my forearms and then swing my legs over the side of the bed. The sheet comes with me when I head over to grab my clothes off the chair in the corner and I dress quickly, pulling my tank top down over my bare chest just as Steve reappears holding a towel around his waist.

"Would you mind taking me home?" I ask, quickly shoving my bra top into the waistband of my jeans as I slip my feet into my Converse sneakers. "If you have time, I mean. It's just that I have no idea where the nearest bus stop is and my phone is about to die. Also, I'd kinda like to get the walk of shame over and done with before my neighbors start taking their kids to school."

"Sure," he says, pulling a button-down on over his grey t-shirt. Rummaging in the nightstand, he pulls his weapon and badge from the bottom drawer and clips the gold shield to the waistband of his cargos. The gun goes in the holster at his hip and then he scoops both of our phones off the tabletop and holds mine out to me. It get shoved it in my pocket as I follow him out onto the landing that runs the length of the upper floor, peering over the handrail as I take the steps two at a time.  
I wasn't exactly paying attention to the décor when I stumbled in through the front door last night but I'm still a little surprised to find that the kitchen looks like it belongs in the 1990s, with its cream units and pink-and-white striped blinds.

"Coffee?" Steve looks over his shoulder to where I'm stood in the doorway leaning against the wooden frame and when I nod, he opens the fridge and pulls a carton of milk out of the door shelf. Unfortunately, it goes down sink before it can make its way into my coffee cup because, as Steve explains, "It went out of date last week." Setting the empty carton down on the counter behind him, he pulls a face as he adds, "I haven't really had time to go shopping lately."

When the kettle has boiled we take our (black) coffees through into the dining room and sit at the table that looks out over the lanai – the Hawaiian version of a porch - onto a private beach. One end of the room has been turned into a study and I find my eye being drawn to the photo frames sitting on top of the dresser behind the walnut desk. Pointing to the photograph of a young man in dress blues, I turn back to Steve, curious.

"Is that you?"

"My Grandfather," he replies distractedly, digging in his pocket for his ringing phone. Glancing at the screen he stands, muttering a polite "Would you excuse me for a minute?" and then heads out onto the lanai to answer the call.

Ten minutes later, I've looked at all of the photos on top of the dresser, as well as the ones on the bookcase next to the dining table. Steve's still on the phone, pacing up and down as he alternates between talking and listening, so I decide to make myself useful by taking our empty coffee cups into the kitchen. Washing them in the sink, I set them down on the draining board to dry and then turn around to head back into the dining room to wait.  
I shoot back, clutching my chest in fright when I spot the woman lounging against the doorframe behind me and then drop my head as I will my heart rate to come back down to normal. It takes a good minute before I feel like I can trust myself to speak without sounding like I swallowed a dog's squeaky toy and I feel a little awkward as I gesture towards the dining room on my right.

"Uh, hi… Steve's outside on a call. You must be –"

"His sister. I'm Mary," the woman says, offering me a smile as she saunters past me to snag one of the clean cups from the draining board behind me. Flipping the switch on the kettle, she pushes herself up to perch on the counter to wait and her mouth quirks up into a mischievous smile as she swings her legs back and forth against the cupboard door below where she's sitting. "So, big night last night…"

"I'm sorry?"

Mary raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "It's an old house. Thin walls."

"Oh, God…" I hide my face in my hands and will the ground to open up and swallow me whole. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't sweat it." Waving a hand in the air like she didn't just tell me she could hear me having sex her brother, she leans forward and beckons me closer before she says, "I just broke up with my boyfriend so I plan on having a _lot_ of guys over. It'll be a fair fight."

Steve appears just after that and – thankfully – herds me towards the door, citing the discovery of a body in the forest reserve just south of Dillingham Airfield as the reason why we have to leave _right now_. Pulling out of the drive a little too fast for comfort, he flips on the Silverado's lights and then takes off up the road like a man possessed. My – I think, not unreasonable - request to turn on the radio to break the awkward silence in the cab is met with a distracted no from Steve so I end up staring out of the window houses in the shadow of the raised freeway until I just can't take it anymore.

"So, your sister seems… _nice_. Are you two close?"

"Not really," Steve mutters distractedly, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. Rubbing at a mark on the doorsill, I glance down at my shoes as I tell him, "My brother and I aren't close, either. We talk on the phone every now and then but that's about it. He was in jail when I moved here so it's been a while since I've seen him; I'd probably walk right on by if we passed each other in the street."

"What was he in jail for?"

Shifting in my seat, I sigh and then quietly admit, "A DUI. The cops pulled him over. He panicked and tried to run… He violated his probation by failing to complete community service so the judge issued a warrant for his arrest and sent him to jail for ten days."

I'm still mortified that my brother was stupid enough to even think about getting behind the wheel after going drinking with his dumb-ass hockey buddies. I would have picked him up if he'd called; sure, I probably would have bitched about having to get up in the middle of the night to collect my pain-in-the-ass older brother but I would have done it, no questions asked.

"He was told to surrender the day before I was due to fly out. I refused to change the date on my ticket on principal. My mom was so mad but I told her that I didn't see why I should have to suffer because Jack had done something stupid; I don't think she talked to me for, like, a week after that."

At that point, Steve reaches across the center divide to squeeze my hand. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely, briefly meeting my eye when he glances away from the road.

"Why?" I turn to look at him as he crosses four lanes of traffic to get to the off-ramp. "It's not like you held a gun to my brother's head and forced him to get behind the wheel."

"No," he concedes with a small shrug, taking the ramp onto Ala Napunani Street. "But I do know what it's like. My sister doesn't exactly have the best track record when it comes to staying out of trouble."

Following the road south for a mile or so, we take a right and then a left followed by another left, and pull up to the curb outside my apartment building less than a minute later. Unclipping my seat belt, I twist in my seat, glancing around to make sure no-one's watching (because the flashing blue lights are bound to attract attention sooner rather than later). Leaning over to kiss him, I murmur, "Thanks for the ride," against Steve's lips before I pull away and then spin round sharply when someone unexpectedly raps on the window behind me.

It's Katie.  
_Of course it is_, I think to myself with a groan. But instead of the dressing down I was expecting - and let's face it, I kind of deserve it for going incommunicado - she smiles a cheshire cat smile and then leans around me to wave at Steve, who smiles back out of sheer politeness.

"Friend of yours?" he asks as Katie motions for me to lower my window. Feeling for the door handle, I wrap my fingers around the cool metal and then look over my shoulder at him.

"My roommate. You may want to shift into Drive before I open the door," I tell him, only half joking. Taking a deep breath I push open the door and, as soon as my feet touch the pavement, I slam it shut behind me. When I look up into the face of my best friend, she grins at me and then reaches up to pat my cheek.

"Well, it's about goddamn time."


	15. Chapter 10

_So, only a little bit of Five-0 in this one. **But...** the next chapter has lots of whump to make up for it.  
Fair warning - Language gets a bit stronger towards the end. __And finally, I've posted the first two chapters of the sister fic I promised you all a few weeks ago. It's called 'Ahonui (Be Patient, Tolerate)'._

_As always, thanks to everyone who's taken the time to favourite, follow and review. Thank you. :)_

* * *

On Sunday night I walk into work feeling like the slightest thing could tip me over the edge. It's the culmination of a few things, such as waking up this afternoon to find that my period had come early and then having a blazing row with Katie over why the air-con maintenance guy has to come at 10am tomorrow when I won't get to bed until 8 after working all night. She might be able to function on two hours sleep but I can't, and it's not fair to expect me to.

"Cheer up, love," Jim, the night guard, calls from behind his desk when I storm down the corridor towards the locker room. "It might never happen."

Heather's already in there and she winces when I slam the door to my locker shut. Pulling her pant leg down over the top of her boot after changing into it, she stands and motions for me to follow her before leading me out into the garage. She keeps walking until we're out the back where the quick response cars are parked in two long lines then leans back against the perimeter wall, and gestures for me start talking.  
"Get it off your chest now," she warns when I stubbornly clamp my mouth shut. "Scream, shout… Do what you have to do to clear your head. You can't afford to be distracted when we get out there."

"I'm not distracted, I'm pissed. There's a difference."

Heather rolls her eyes at my cheek. "Well, whatever it is, get over it, all right? Better medics than you have found themselves in the shit because they've let themselves be distracted by something they should have left at door."

Just after midnight we're dispatched to a road traffic accident over the Kane'ohe Bay side of the island. The Sat Nav directs us past the Punchbowl on the Pali Highway and up over the ridge through Kaneohe into Ahuimanu. The road twists as it climbs and a couple of times, Heather has to grab onto the 'oh shit' handle above the door when I take a corner a little too fast in my haste to get us to the scene.

"We're not going to be any use to anybody if we die in a fire-y wreck before we even get there," she mutters before pointedly shifting in her seat so that her seatbelt doesn't choke her when it locks into place around the next bend (being so petite, it happens more often that you'd think).

Biting my tongue, I take my foot off the accelerator and brake before steering the rig around the next sweeping curve; Heather's talk earlier hit a nerve and I haven't forgiven her enough to want to make friends again just yet. I'll be civil but that's it.

"Have they updated the information yet?" I ask sullenly, nodding at the on-board computer between us. All dispatch could tell us when they patched the job through was that HPD was already en-route.

"Three cars involved, one of which has gone off the road into a ditch. Multiple casualties – they've sent a responder on ahead of us."

Quick response – also know as rapid response - cars are manned by one person, usually an EMT Paramedic like Heather. They carry the same life-saving equipment we do but, not being as bulky as a rig, they tend to get through traffic quicker and that means they can start treatment earlier. In the case of something like a stroke, even a minute can be the difference between a patient recovering the use of their leg(s) or being reliant on a wheelchair.

"They'll hopefully have triaged everyone by the time we get there," Heather adds, reaching up the fix the barrette holding her bangs back off of her face.

The road where the accident took place turns out to be little more than a dirt track and it's barely wide enough for two cars to pass without touching wing mirrors. On one side, it slopes away sharply and a hedge separates the ditch from the field beyond it. When we pull in to the side of the road behind a squad car we're met by the fast responder, a tall lanky guy whose name badge identifies him as Ano Hokule'a, and he leads us past the 'road closed' signs to where a Subaru Impreza and a Toyota Prius are lying abandoned in the middle of the road with their headlights still on.

"The third car's there," he says, pointing up the road to where two uniformed officers are shining their mag lights into the ditch. "It was travelling side-by-side with the Subaru when they met the Prius coming the other way. They split up and tried to go around the prius - HPD are thinking the driver of the Prius took her hands off the wheel to cover her face and her car then clipped the back end of the Mustang, sending it spinning. It flipped when it hit that rock over there and then slide down the incline. The two occupants were out by the time HPD arrived – they're over there with the two that were in the Subaru."

He points up the road to where four teenage boys are sitting on the ground with blankets draped over their shoulders and then tells us, "I've got the Prius driver sitting in the back of my car - if you guys could check out the Lewis Hamilton wannabe's, I'll get her sorted so she can head home as soon as her son gets here."

Nodding, we head into the back of the rig to grab our bags and head over to where the boys are sitting on the ground, leaning against one of the patrol cars. All of them have the same haunted look on their face - the seriousness of the situation has obviously starting to sink in - and they sit in silence as we methodically work our way down the line, taking pulses and checking blood pressures. It's not hard to tell which ones were in the Mustang because both of them have cuts and scrapes all over their arms and faces; I clean the gash on nineteen-year-old Luke's cheek and close it using two butterfly bandages while Heather pokes at his friend's swollen lower lip before we agree that neither of them require hospital treatment.

Once the Subaru's occupants have been checked over as well, I clamber to my feet and head over to the pair of officers standing by the newly-arrived Vehicular Homicide Section van to let them know they boys are fit to be questioned. When I announce my presence they both turn, but the handsome male officer's face twists like he's smelled something bad. He probably expects me say his prisoners can't be questioned due to needing medical attention in the ER, so I smile as I gesture over my should at the boys and tell him, "They're all yours. I think they've realized how close they came to seriously hurting that lady."

"They were lucky," the middle-aged female officer agrees, watching as her partner kicks at the dirt in disgust at the boys' actions. "If they were my kids, I'd be kicking their butts up and down this road for being so stupid and then taking away their keys. I'm telling you - these boys-racer types would think twice about showing off to their friends if they spent a day in the morgue with Doc Bergman."

"That's never going to happen and you know it," her partner grumbles. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he tells her, "I'll go let the Sarge know they can be taken back to the station," and then walks off towards the two officers watching the VHS techs dropping numbered markers next to the skid marks left in the dirt. We watch him go in silence and then, when he's out of ear shot, the young woman turns to me and asks, "Was that you and your partner I saw with Danny Williams the other day?"

"If you mean up at Waahila Ridge then yes, it was."

"I thought so," she says with a smile. "Danny's a good guy. I worked a few cases under him when he worked homicide at HPD. Of course, that was before McGarrett poached him for his task force." Glancing over at the group of officers behind us, she raises an eyebrow. "I'd better go – don't want to get in trouble with the brass now that Lukela's cracking down. Someone should be over to take those boys off of your hands in a couple of minutes."

She heads over to join her partner by the abandoned Subaru, leaving me to make my way back to where I left Heather watching over my equipment. The woman's comment about Steve strong-arming Danny into being his partner ties in with what I've heard about the rift between Five-0 and HPD; McGarrett ruffled a lot of feathers when he chose a pineapple-hating haole, a disgraced cop and a rookie –the disgraced cop's cousin, no less - to join his special team and some of the officers have even gone so far as to refuse to take orders from him, using the excuse that McGarrett's _'not a real cop'_ to justify their outright hostility.

_They're probably just jealous_, I think as I wander past where the VHS techs have moved onto positioning high-powered lights around the cars. Steve has the governor's backing and 'means and immunity', whatever that is. _And_ half of the island's female population throwing themselves at him on a near-daily basis, which isn't exactly surprisingly given how good Super SEAL looks in his tactical gear (who knew thigh holsters could be so much of a turn on?). What do those guys have?

"Can we go?" Heather asks when I eventually rejoin her where she's leaning against the patrol car watching over the boys. Shaking my head, I stuff my hands in my pocket and then lean back against the rear panel beside her to watch as the one of the techs photographs the positions of the two cars on the road.

The four uniforms have moved off to one side and are talking amongst themselves. They're not exactly keeping their voices down - the Paul Giamatti look-alike's is particularly grating - so it's not surprising that I can hear snippets of what's being said even though I'm standing a good forty feet away.  
I do my best to tune them out but it's hard when the look-alike seems to be in love with the sound of his own voice and doesn't seem to care who hears him going on about everything from the malasadas he had during his break to why he thinks the top brass are cracking down on them.

(Unsurprisingly), Steve's name crops up within about thirty seconds of the guy starting to explain his theory and I chew on my lower lip as I try to block out what he's saying (because it's really none of my business and, given what happened the other day, I'm more than a little biased). The problem is, it's a lot harder than it sound and I end up shaking my head in frustration as I push myself up from where I've been leaning against the cruiser. I need something to distract me so I kneel down beside my kit bag and pull my little square notebook from one of the zip pockets, intent on practicing converting Celsius to Farenheit and vice versa. But when I feel inside my trouser pocket for my pen, it's not there and I curse when a quick pat down leaves me empty handed.

"Seriously?"

"What's wrong?" Heather asks.

"I've lost my pen."

"There's a full box in the rig," she says without glancing up from where she's using a wet wipe to clean the face of her watch. "Just take one."

Pulling my penlight out of the leg pocket of my cargos, I shake my head, insisting, "No this was a special one. I find it tricky to write with some pens because I'm left-handed, you know?" and then point to a spot over by the group of gabbing officers. "I'm going to go check over there in case it fell out of my pocket earlier. Be right back," and then quickly walk off before she can question what makes this specific pen so special.

Aiming my penlight at the ground, I keep my head down as I walk back along the verge towards the VHS van looking for my lost pen. As soon as I'm level with the back end of the Subaru I slow my pace and start to meander a little, singing the new Nick Jonas song under my breath to drown out the inane chatter going on behind and slightly to the right of me. It works - until I notice one of my bootlaces has come undone and I crouch down right beside the group to tie it before I end up tripping over it.

"I saw him," the balding cop says, folding his arms over his chest. "He was at the precinct the other day talking to Lukela."

"Is that it? You saw them talking?" the female officer I was talking to earlier pipes up. "Duke and McGarrett go way back - for all you know they could have been discussing where to go for lunch."

The guy scowls and retorts, "You didn't let me finish, Karen. So, as I was saying, McGarrett was at the station talking to Duke and then, a couple of hours after he leaves, Lukela calls Kamalei and Mackay into his office and tells them he's putting them on traffic duty indefinitely. He gave Mackay a load of crap about having to follow up on a complaint that was made about the way they dealt with an assault case."

Boot secured, I stand and continue with my search just as the tall handsome officer chips in a quiet "So…? What's that got to do with us losing our smoke breaks?"

The balding guy smiles arrogantly and taps the side of his nose. "It was McGarrett who made the complaint," he tells his colleagues. "Rumor is, he's hooking up with the victim - otherwise why would he have gotten involved in a run-of-the-mill assault case? Lukela needs to make it look like he's handling things on HPD's end so he's 'cracking down' on us to keep McGarrett happy. Hence the lecture we got at briefing."

I've heard more than enough at this point and I abandon my search and quickly head back to where I left my partner keeping an eye on my kit bag. I can't believe that Steve went to HPD - what happened in Chinatown had absolutely nothing to do with him and by going to Duke Lukela, he's not only managed to piss off half of HPD, he's screwed me over, too (excuse the pun); I feel physically sick when I realize that all the two officers have to do is work out which assault Duke was talking about when he demoted them (details get written down in their notebooks incase they need to recall an incident in court) to get my name, address and occupation – it's all there on the charge sheet.

What happens if they persuade their colleagues to blackball me the same way some of HPD have blackballed Steve? And where does that leave me – and, more importantly, my partner - if things go to shit when we're on a call?

The idea of half of the emergency service personnel on the island finding out that I jumped into bed with McGarrett the first chance I got doesn't bother me half as much as the knowing I could potentially be left to the wolves. I bet Super SEAL didn't think about _that_ before he went storming into Duke Lukela's office to confront him without talking to me first.

By the time I join Heather leaning against the rear panel of one of the black and whites, I have the beginnings of a plan of action forming inside my head and the first thing on my list is to find McGarrett.

**H50*H50*H50**

A little after eight am, I pull into the lot across the road from the Iolani palace – home to Five-0 HQ - and grab the sparkly pink gift bag containing Grace's birthday present off of the passenger seat as I go to get out of the car. It's not long started spitting and I clutch the bag close to my chest to shield it from the rain as I make a run for it across the road. Trotting up the steps, I push open the tall wooden door and join the queue waiting to go through the metal detector in the entrance hall. When the guard eyes my uniform and asks where I'm heading I tell her, "Commander McGarrett's office," and hand over the gift bag to be checked; once she's satisfied I'm not trying to smuggle in anything illegal she hands the bag back and waves me through.

Walking through into the main building, I take a second to marvel at the palace's high domed ceiling and the twin marble staircases that sweep in towards each other as they climb and then make a beeline for the guard sitting behind the desk on my right to ask directions to Steve's office; Lenny is more than happy to point me in the right direction and I turn right at the top of the stairs, and follow the long corridor round until I come to a double set of glass doors as described.  
The lights are on inside the large office suite and the door opens when I try it, so I head inside, glancing down at the _Special Investigations, State of Hawaii_ insignia on the floor as I walk past the unoccupied offices lining the left side of the walls.

"Hello?"

There's no answer so I wander further into the suite and pause next to what looks like a giant iPad supported by four legs; it's the size of a large dining table and surround at one end by three TV screens suspended from the ceiling. There's an actual table behind it and I drop Grace's present on the glass top as I let my gaze drift around the rest of the room, from the large corner office - Steve's (the flags and naval-themed paintings on either side of the desk are a dead give-away) - to the padlocked metal weapons locker that takes up most of the wall beyond it. The last of the offices takes up the remaining space on that side and I look at the sofa inside the glass-walled room longingly; the balls of my feet are burning and my eyes feel gritty, like there's sand in them, but I know that if I sit down I'll probably end up falling asleep. So, rubbing at my eyes, I tap my fingertips against the glass tabletop and then check my watch, trying to decide how much longer to wait.

Five minutes pass, then ten, and I wait until the display on the black and red G-Shock I bought especially for work changes from 08:19 to 08:20 before grabbing the gift bag back off the table and heading for the door. Using my shoulder to push my way out into the corridor, I let it swing shut behind me and then jump when look up to find myself face-to-face with Lieutenant Kelly, who nimbly steps to one side before I end up bouncing off his chest.

"It's Chloe, right?" he says, running his eyes over the _Registered Emergency Medical Technician – Basic_ and _State of Hawaii Paramedic_ badges on my rumpled uniform shirt. "I'm Chin Ho Kelly. I've head a lot about you."

"All good things I hope," I say, offering him a tired smile before I motion to the door behind me. "I didn't mean to intrude - I thought that, with the door being open…"

Chin waves off my apology, saying, "I went to get something out of my car," and nods at the gift bag I'm holding as he slips past me to push open the door into HQ. "I assume that's for Grace. I can take it off your hands if you want, unless you'd rather wait and give it Danny personally?"

"Actually, I'm here to see Steve. Do you know when he'll be in?"

"He shouldn't be much longer," Chin says as I trail him along the corridor towards Steve's office. "Tell you what, why don't you go take a seat in his office and I'll let him know you're here."

He points me towards the large corner office and heads into his own to give Steve a call while I settle myself into one of the twin leather chairs in front of the desk and then twist to look around. There's a row of shields on the wall behind me and to my left, a display box – or 'shadow' box - filled with medals and various insignia. I only recognize two – the Purple Heart and Bronze star – and, secretly, I'm awed by the sheer number of ribbons on display. The list of commendations beside it, all awarded to Steven J. McGarrett, United States Navy, only goes to prove what I've thought all along – Super SEAL is one _bad-ass_ mother fucker.

But that still doesn't change the fact that I'm pissed at him and when he appears less than ten minutes later, I greet him with a weary-sounding "Why did you go to Duke Lukela?"  
He looks confused, bless him, and comes to perch on the edge of his desk in front of me as I lean back in my chair and run a hand through my hair in frustration.

"Did it have anything to do with what happened between us Friday night?"

"Is that what you think?" he asks coolly. When I nod, he silently pushes himself up and heads round to the high-backed office chair behind his desk. "You're wrong," he informs me, pulling a sheaf of paperwork out of one of the drawers. "I remembered what you told me about the guy already being under arrest for assault so I asked Duke to pull the case file and he agreed that the whole thing never should have happened."

"I never asked you to get involved," I snap, my voice rising as the anger that's been brewing in my chest starts to bubble over. "I was handling it just fine on my own."

Steve chuckles humourlessly. "If by that, you mean filing charges against a user who'll probably end up overdosing before he makes it in front of a judge instead of complaining about a lazy officer who thought it would be fun to watch you squirm then yeah, you're right. Good job."

"Unbelievable."

Shaking my head incredulously, I grab my bag and stand, telling Steve, "I think I finally understand why half of HPD refuses to take orders from you," as I storm towards the door. Pausing there momentarily, I call, "Do me a favor and lose my number until you stop acting like a goddamn caveman," over my shoulder and then shove my way back into the main space where Chin is leaning over the computer table, scrolling through what look like a list of mug shots.  
He looks up at the sound of my boots on the tiled floor and then cocks his head when I switch tracks to approach him and hold up the glittery pink bag containing Grace's gift.

"Would you mind giving this to Danny for me?"

"Of course." Taking the bag, the lieutenant motions towards Steve's office with it before fixing me with the eyes of a wise old man. "I couldn't help but overhear. Everything okay?"

"Peachy," I lie, forcing myself to smile at him. "I'm gonna go home and get some sleep, but it was nice to meet you properly and thanks for taking that - " I point at the pink bag he's holding and start walking backwards towards the main doors. "- off my hands."

"No worries. See you around, Chloe."

_Not if I can help it_, I think with a chuckle as I turn on my heel and head for the doors.

* * *

*peers out between splayed fingers_*  
Is it safe to come out? No? Okay... _


	16. Chapter 11 - Part 1

_So, here it is... the mega whump I promised in the last chapter_. _I hope it was worth the wait. :)  
More whump to come in the next part._

As always, any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

* * *

As always, my days off go by far too quickly.

By the time I got home on Monday morning, I had just enough time to take a shower before the air-con guy turned up and I turned the water temperature down until the icy-cold stole the air from my lungs. I lasted less than a minute but it was enough to wake me up and, at the same time, calm me down before I ended up biting someone's head off over something trivial. Once the air-conditioning was declared A-okay, I fell into bed and slept for well over twelve hours, leaving me to spend Tuesday in a kind of not-quite-sure-if-I'm-in-my-own-body-or-now post-migraine haze. It was only when Katie caught me trying pour vinegar over my chicken fried rice that she took pity on me and shoved a cup of strong black coffee under my nose.

Wednesday was spent doing the laundry I'd neglected while on nightshift and catching up with my parents in Illinois (Mom's been referred to an oncologist by her doctor, which is a little worrying, while Daddy's been keeping himself busy converting my old bedroom into a nursery for his first grandbaby), and then it was back to work on Thursday.  
Heather and I had one of the quietest shifts in the history of quiet shifts, spending the best part of a quarter of it parked up waiting for a job to come through. She quizzed me on advanced life support protocols and then later, we sat with containers of spicy shrimp on our knees while we familiarized ourselves with the new CPR regs (more chest compressions, less rescue breathing). All in all, it was a pretty uneventful twelve hours.

When I go to sign in for my shift on Friday, Heather's been marked down on the daily log sheet as being off sick and I frown as I scribble my name next to the number ID of the rig I've been assigned, and then take the radio and keys the shift supervisor is holding out to me. "What happens when your partner has called off for the day? Will I get sent out on my own?" I ask Christina, who looks like she could be Melissa McCarthy's older sister.

"No, honey, it's only the EMT Paramedics who get sent out solo," she says, rolling her office chair backwards to grab one of the clipboards from the row pinned to the wall behind her. Running her finger down the list on the top page, she tells me, "You're with Michael Halia today," as I sign the radio log and then push it back across the desk towards her.

"Okay, thanks." Gathering up my things, I clip my keys to my belt loop and my radio to my waistband, and then head for the locker room to change out of my Chuck Taylors. Work boots laced, I check my makeup in the square mirror on the inside of my locker door (mostly concealer because the bruise under my eye has gone from purple-red to a horrible greeny-yellow) and then take a moment to prepare myself for the day ahead before I pull the door open and head out into the hall.

The break room is pretty crowded and I end up leaning against the counter in the small kitchen area until Jill, one of the quick response medics, leaves to start prep. I quickly snag her chair and sip at my cup of coffee as I try to pick my partner out of the assembled medics. It's harder than I thought and I end up ticking three potentials off of my list when they get up and leave without a second glance around the room. Glancing down at my watch, I decide to give Michael another five minutes before I head out into the garage to start prep – God knows I can't afford to piss off my watch commanders by being late but as long as I'm ready to go by the time we're supposed to start taking calls (at or just before seven, because that's when the nightshift clock off) then I should be okay.

The room is almost empty by the time I finish my coffee and my phone rings as I'm washing my cup in the sink. I answer the unknown local number with a quiet 'hello?' as I set the 'he told me I was being delusional – I nearly fell off my unicorn' mug down on the draining board and quickly recognize the voice on the other end of the line as being my partner, who apologizes for ditching me today - her words, not mine.

"_Matthew's been up all night with a stomach ache. My darling husband's just started being sick, too, so I've put Matty in our bed with him,"_ Heather tells me around a jaw-cracking yawn as I turn to lean against the counter. _"Kalani couldn't get out of the house quick enough when I told her to get in the car to go to school."_

"Poor Matty," I sympathize. "And poor Ross. There's obviously a bug of some sort going round."

"_Yeah,"_ Heather sighs. "_Like I said, I'm sorry to ditch you today, but I don't feel comfortable leaving Ross to look after Matty when he's not well himself."_

"Don't apologize. You did what you had to do," I tell her, glancing up when I notice a young-ish guy sauntering into the break room. "Hey, I gotta go. Tell Matty and Ross I hope they feel better and text me if you need anything brought by after work."

"_Thanks. I'll call you later,"_ Heather replies before hanging up and I do the same before quickly shoving my phone into my pocket. The young-ish guy is making a beeline towards where I'm standing and I smile at him as I venture, "You must be Michael. Hi, I'm Chloe." He's short and stocky, kind of like Danny, and his warm dark eyes and kind smile make me feel at ease as he hold his hand out to shake mine.

"Call me Mike - the only person who calls me Michael is my mom and only when I've done something to piss her off."

"Okay, noted," I say, pushing myself away from the counter. "Let's go, Mike." I follow him out into the hall and we walk side by side until we reach the door to the garage. Mike holds it open for me like a gentleman and then helps me up into the back of the rig where he divvies up the start-of-day chores up between us; I pull out the drugs box while my new partner checks the defibrillator and then we take turns wiping down the flat surfaces in between trips to the storeroom for Demerol and more IV kits. Thankfully, we finish prep just as my watch beeps to signal a new hour and I breathe a sigh of relief as I head round to the driver's door to start the rig's engine.

Mike follows me and I look at him questioningly when he motions for me to give him the key. "I thought we'd switch things up a bit today," he says, plucking them out of my hand when I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm going to drive. That means you get to be the senior crew member."

"But I only have my Basic qualification. What if something happens and I don't know what to do?"

"Relax, Chloe," my new partner drawls. He winks at me as he turns the key in the ignition. "You'll be fine."

Yeah. Right.

By mid morning, I've treated a broken leg, a possible spinal injury and a heart attach without killing anyone (pretty good, if I do say so myself) but it's like my first day all over again because every time the onboard computer beeps, I get a rush of adrenaline that sends my heart into overdrive. When our next job pops up on the screen, we're waiting to turn left onto Puuloa Road in Moanalua and I lean forwards in my seat to accept it, tugging at my seatbelt when it locks into place and nearly strangles me.  
"Head for Luakaha Street in Waimalu," I tell Mike. "HPD are waiting for us."

I flip on the lights and sit back in my seat as Mike guides the bus in and out of the traffic on H201 towards Halawa and then merges onto H1. He takes the exit for Newton Park around four clicks later and after the park we turn left and then left again. Luakaha Street is the second on the right after that.

There's an unmarked patrol car parked across the width of the road to block it off and I roll down my window when the uniformed officer standing next to it motions for us to stop; he points us towards a black Ford Fiesta across the street, saying, "Wait over there behind that car. Someone will come and get you if you're needed."

"What's going on?" Mike asks, leaning over the steering wheel to see around me.

"Hostage situation."

Once we're parked up, Mike leans forwards in his seat to peer nosily down the closed-off road. I have a pretty good view of what's going on from the passenger-side seat and I rest my elbow on the doorsill, and rest my head against my fist as I watch HPD's SWAT team being waved through by the uniform I spoke to; as soon as they're through, the officer starts stringing _Police line_ tape across the road to block it off completely and I watch as the van pulls in to the curb in front of a familiar-looking silver Camaro only to groan, and let my head fall against the window with a quiet 'thunk', when I spot a geared-up Steve jogging along the pavement to meet them.

I haven't spoken to him since I stormed out of his office. He called a couple of times but I couldn't bring myself to answer after the _good job_ jibe that had felt like a knife being twisted in my back; I sent every single one of his calls to voicemail and then deleted the text message that followed without reading it. I had a sneaking suspicion that Katie may have sent a rather pointed (read: bitchy) reply while I was in the bathroom because Steve stopped calling after that.

So yeah, I don't really want to see, let alone have to deal with him right now, but that would probably be a whole lot easier if the man didn't get himself into trouble on an almost daily basis – someone should probably call the Oxford English Dictionary and tell them that the definition of trouble maker has been changed to 'Steve McGarrett'.

"Have you ever been to something like this?" I rub at the sore spot on my forehead as I glance over at Mike, who shakes his head and tells me, "No, but I've patched up Commander McGarrett and his partner a couple of times – those two are like an old married couple, always arguing about something."

"Commander McGarrett could start an argument in an empty room," I mutter snidely, which is met with a bark of laughter from my partner. Grinning, he asks, "I'm guessing there's a story behind that fine example of sarcasm?" and I shrug in reply, and turn back to the window as I tell him, "I just can't be bothered dealing with Super SEAL's macho-stoicism bullshit right now."

"_Macho-stoicism bullshit?"_ Mike questions with a raised eyebrow as I pull my hair out of my ponytail and slip the elastic around my wrist.

Pulling down my sun visor, I flip open the small mirror on the back as I tell him, "It means he's a stubborn jackass who doesn't know when to quit."

"Ah…"

"Yup."

Dividing my hair into three sections, I twist it into a messy braid and then snap the visor back into place above me. Along the street, a small group has gathered around the trunk of the Camaro and I watch as one of the figures – Steve, I think - points to one of the houses on his left. He barks a few orders and then the group disperses; the SWAT officers head across the street while the former SEAL pulls something out of the Chevy's trunk and slots it into his pocket (or maybe it's the loop at the front of his Tac vest, I'm not sure) before he slams the trunk lid shut and jogs across the street. He disappears behind an overgrown hedge about halfway down the row of houses and a few minutes later there's a loud bang, and then another, and lots of shouting as (I assume) the house is stormed.

When it's all over, and the hostage-taker has been subdued long enough to be cuffed (wrists _and _ankles), it takes four uniforms to carry him to the waiting HPD van. He's still kicking off when they get there so he gets manhandled into the cage at the back and put down on his front, and then two of the officers climb into the backseat to keep an eye on him on the way back to HQ.

I wait for the door to slide shut behind them before reaching for my seatbelt and I tell Mike, "I'm going to start getting my stuff together," as I curl my fingers around the door handle. I glance around to make sure it's safe before I slide out of my seat and then quickly make my way round to the back of the rig to grab my kit bag from the locker behind the passenger seat. I grab Mike's as well and set it down on the foot of them bed while I get the defibrillator out of the locker by the door. When he appears in the doorway I hold his bag out to him and then swing my own up over my shoulder. "If you take the defib, I'll take the oxygen," I say, standing on my tiptoes to pull the portable canister from one of the high lockers.

The uniform standing guard by the cordon lifts the tape for us to duck underneath it and then points us towards the SWAT captain, a tall imposing black man dressed in navy HPD SWAT fatigues, who's standing in front of the tall hedge across the road. He, in turn, points us through the wrought iron gate on his right, where we find a shaken-looking young women perched on the top step of the porch. Danny's crouched down beside her and he looks up at the sound of our boots on the gravel path before pushing himself to his feet.

Indicating the young woman at his side, he calls, "Over here, guys," and then explains, "This is Steffi – she was in the house with Kono and forced to barricade the bedroom door shut while Kono had a gun held to her head." Stepping out of the way so Mike can kneel down to check Steffi's pulse, he then motions over his shoulder and tells me, "Kono's still inside. Steffi said she took a bit of a hit when one of our suspects went for her gun; she was caught off-guard. We all were – none of us thought we were looking for more than one person."

"Am I okay to go in there?" I ask as I set the oxygen canister down beside Mike's bag and then reach out to squeeze Danny's arm comfortingly. He nods, telling me, "Try not to touch anything but let someone know if you do."

"Sure." Bumping my bag higher onto my shoulder, I slip past the detective into the bungalow's long, narrow hallway and press myself back against the wall when I meet someone about a third of the way down. Just my luck, that someone just happens to be the one person I'm actively trying to avoid and I drop my head when he clocks me. I can feel his gaze burning a hole in the top of my head and it's a relief when, a few seconds later, he seems to think better of talking to me and walks past without saying a word.

Letting my eyes slip shut for a moment, I breathe out and give myself a shake before pushing away from the wall to follow the long dark hallway around to the right. Steve's silence has left me feeling unsettled, the same way I feel before a summer storm rolls in over the Pacific, and I do my best to push the fist-sized ball of anxiety in my chest to the back of my mind as I follow the sound of Kono's voice to a bedroom at the end of the corridor. I knock before I enter and then raise my hand in greeting when the cousins look up from the evidence bag Chin's holding.

"Sorry to interrupt. Kono, are you okay?"

She nods and offers me a small smile as she tells me, "Yeah, I'm fine." When Chin Ho raises an eyebrow at her, she rolls her eyes at him before insisting, "Seriously, Cuz, it's nothing ice and painkillers won't fix."

"I can help with that," I chip in, letting my bag slide down off of my shoulder. Kneeling, I tug at the zip and then pull an instant icepack – the type you pop to activate – and a sleeve of Ibuprofen from one of the internal pockets. I cut off a section containing two tabs and slot the remaining meds back in with my other painkillers before standing up and holding them out to Kono. "Here, take them. I'd rather you had them and didn't need them than need them and not have them. If that makes sense."

"Yeah, thanks," Kono says, smiling gratefully as she steps forwards to take the painkillers and icepack from me. While I crouch down to close up my bag, she slips the meds into her pocket and then sets the icepack down on top of the bed. Standing, I swing my bag back up onto my shoulder and check she doesn't need anything else before I head back along the hall towards the front door. Outside, Mike's still monitoring Steffi's vitals and he sends me off in search of blanket to wrap around the young woman's shoulders as he presses his fingers into the underside of her wrist once more; one of the uniforms outside saves me from walking back to the rig by providing me with a blanket and a fleece-line HPD windbreaker from the trunk of his patrol car, and I hand both over to Mike, who gently drapes the grey woolen throw over Steffi's shoulders while I lean back against the porch railings and watch him.

He gives the young woman's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and then settles himself down beside her on the top step as I ask her, "How're you holding up?" I get a small shrug in return and she wraps the blanket tighter around herself when I continue, "I bet it was pretty scary in there, huh?"  
Nodding, Steffi's gaze drifts towards the gate and when I follow it, I notice a young man approaches us from the bottom of the garden path. He's wearing an HPD uniform and he makes a beeline for me, stopping just in front of the empty plant pot at the bottom of the porch steps.

"Are you busy just now? Detective Williams is looking for a medic."

"No, I'm free. Where am I going?" I ask, bending down to scoop my bag off the ground where I left it while I went off in search of a blanket.

"Down the street, next to the Five-0 vehicles."

I leave Mike to finish up with Steffi and follow the officer down the path. When I reach the gate, I pause for a moment to scan the street for any sign of Danny and then head for the red Cruz that's parked at the rear of the Camaro when I catch a glimpse of blond hair behind it. Skirting around the red car's front bumper, I step up onto the sidewalk to find Danny hovering over his partner, who's looking a little pale beneath his year-round tan; the commander's triceps is streaked with red where the blood from the nasty-looking lacerations around his elbow has run down the back of his arm under the sleeve of his t-shirt despite his partner keeping that arm elevated in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

But it's not the bleeding that's making me frown as I kneel down beside the former SEAL. His cheekbones are noticeably more prominent and there are dark smudges under his eyes that make me suspect he hasn't slept properly since I saw him on Monday morning. Whatever it is that's caused his insomnia, add to it a hostage situation involving a civilian and one of his own, and the result is one tired, run-down looking SEAL. If I weren't still pissed at him, I'd probably hug him, because he has this 'puppy that's been left out in the rain' thing going on and _God_, if that isn't doing all sorts of weird things to my head.

Letting my bag slip down over my shoulder, I reach into my knee pocket for a pair of gloves and swivel round on the balls of my feet to take a look at Steve's arm. "What did you cut yourself on?" I ask, using my thumb to wipe away the blood that's welling up in the groove of the wound as I fumble with the zip on my kit bag. It's Danny who tells me, "The bathroom window," which earns him a halfhearted glare from his partner as the dark-haired man leans his head back against the door of the car he's using to prop himself up. "Super SEAL here didn't want to wait for a crowbar so he used the butt of his gun to smash the glass and then caught his arm trying to undo the catch on the inside." Danny shifts his grip on Steve's arm and eyes the blood spotting the sidewalk behind with veiled concern as he snarks, "If he had waited all of thirty seconds, he wouldn't be bleeding out all of the pavement right now."

"A civilian, whose safety _I _am personally responsible for had a gun pointed at her, Danny!" Steve snaps, using his good arm to push himself upright. I haven't seen him this riled up since that day at the warehouse and I quickly jump in between him and Danny when I see the detective's eyebrow narrow into an angry-looking vee.

"Okay, enough." I pin Danny with a look that could melt ice and then push Steve back against the car door, telling him, "You'll have plenty of time to finish your argument later," as I sit back on my heels to swap my soiled gloves for a clean pair. I pull wipes, gauze and tape out of my bag and get Danny to hold Steve's arm a little higher so I can press a temporary dressing to the underside without having to twist myself into a pretzel. Steve holds it in place while I feel around behind me for my roll of tape and I tear off three strips when I find it, and stick the edges down before smoothing the third piece down over the middle.

Leaning back, I drop the tape back in my bag and ask my patient, "Shoulder or elbow?"  
Steve's brow furrows like he doesn't know what I'm talking about and I raise my eyebrow at him in a don't-you-even-think-about-lying-to-me warning as I say, "You wince whenever Danny moves your arm, so which one is it – elbow or shoulder?"

"Shoulder," the former SEAL admits grudgingly as he reaches up to tug at the neck of his Kevlar. Dropping his hand down to pull at the side tabs, his fingers scrabble at the sticky Velcro fastening until I take pity and lean forwards to undo it for him. Danny leans down to unsnap the clip at the shoulder so I can pull the restrictive vest off over Steve's good arm; I twist to set it down on the ground behind me only to turn back sharply when I hear Danny ask, "Hey, you okay, babe?"

The former SEAL is bent over at the waist, good arm propped up on his knee, hand pressed against his forehead, like he's suddenly come over faint, and I slip my hand in around his arm to check his pulse as Danny crouches down across from me.

"Do you feel dizzy at all?" I ask, pressing my fingers into the underside of Steve's wrist. He shakes his head almost automatically in reply and I feel the need to check, "Are you sure?" as I let go of his wrist and go to note his heart rate on the back of my gloved hand; it's at the higher end of the normal range but I put that down to the adrenaline rush of dealing with a hostage situation as I peel off my gloves. The one with the former SEAL's heart rate on it gets stuffed in my pocket in case I need it later (the reading, not the glove) and then I press the backs of my fingers against my patient's flushed cheek - he feels a little warm and I make a mental note to check his temperature again when we get back to the rig incase the heat I can feel isn't down to having spent the last hour or so running around in ninety-odd degree heat whilst fully geared up.

As expected, Steve tries to pull away when I press my hand to his cheek and he groans when a hand – Danny's, not mine – pushes him back down until he's almost folded in half. "Stay put for a minute, moron," the detective scolds sharply when the dark-haired man shifts uncomfortably against the hold he has on the back of his neck.

"I'm fine, Danny," Steve grumbles as I quickly shove my gauze and tape back into the respective pockets. "C'mon, let me up - I can't breathe all folded up like this."

"No," his partner snaps back even as he eases his grip. "And you're not fine, you weren't even fine to begin with. Do I need to remind you of the conversation we had in your office this morning? Because I will…"

"That was before we realized we'd fucked up, Danno."

Zipping up my kit bag, I lean on my thighs to push myself up and step of Steve's outstretched leg as I motion to Danny to let him sit up. "I'm parked at the end of the street," I tell my patient before asking, "Think you can make it that far?" He nods so I wrap my fingers around his good wrist and tell him, "On three." At two, I brace myself, pushing my heels into the ground as I tighten my grip on the SEAL's wrist and get ready to pull him to his feet. He's not as heavy as I thought he'd be – or maybe I'm stronger than I thought – and once he's upright, he leans against the door of the Cruz while he bends down to remove the holster from around his thigh. While I'm waiting, I grab his Tac vest and hold it out to Danny, who swaps it for the oversized green backpack containing my equipment.

* * *

_TBC..._


	17. Chapter 11 - Part 2

_Okay, part two... It's pretty short but the next part will make up for it._  
_I hope it lives up to expectations..._

_And thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, favourite, follow and review. I appreciate it and you've given me some great feedback. :)  
_

* * *

"You'll have him back in about twenty minutes," I tell Danny as I start to nudge Steve towards the cordon at the end of the road. When we get to the rig, I jump up into the back and then point my patient towards the stretcher as I pull the back doors closed behind him. My kit bag gets laid out across the bench seat while the commander gets himself settled and I pull my squeezy bottle of saline out of the side pocket before grabbing gauze, gloves and two square absorbent pads (to catch the run-off when I irrigate the former SEAL's wounds) out of one of the overheard lockers.

Everything gets set down on the bed and then I hold one of the pads out to Steve, telling him, "Put that over your leg so I don't get blood on your pants when I'm cleaning your arm." The beige cargos he's wearing are already spotted with blood but they look like they might be salvageable – assuming I don't get any more on them, that is.

When I've worked my hands into my gloves, I remove the dressing I applied to Steve's arm outside and dump it in a yellow waste bag that will go in the incinerator at whichever hospital we end up at next. I'm pleased to note that the bleeding has slowed to a slow ooze as I hold the second pad against the commander's arm down near his wrist and I joke softly, "I bet you're regretting wearing beige pants to work today, huh?" as I reach for the saline to start flushing the wounds around his elbow.

"Yeah, well, I didn't count on finding our suspect's bit-on-the-side hiding in the closet when I got dressed this morning – next time, I'll be sure to consult my crystal ball," the former SEAL mutters tiredly, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his t-shirt as I set my squeezy bottle down and then lay the square pad out on the bed beside it.

"Just think what you'd save on dry cleaning," I say with a small smile as I soak a wad of gauze with the saline and then use it to scrub at the trails of dried blood on the back of Steve's arm. Some are more stubborn than others and I glance up as I go to toss the soiled wad on top of the square pad to check that I'm not pressing down too hard on the tender skin around the wounds. When I ask, I get the headshake I was expecting in return but, while the commander doesn't appear to be in pain, his face is yet to regain any of its color and that, combined with slight flush on his cheeks, makes me wonder if he might be coming down with something.

Not that he'd ever admit to it – I'm pretty sure that Steve would rather jump off a cliff without a parachute than confess to falling foul of a pesky little microbe and I really don't see that changing any time soon so, chewing on my lip, I soak another wad of gauze in saline. Steve watches me in silence as I start wiping down his arm again, waiting until I've finished dressing his wounds to ask quietly, "Why didn't you answer when I called?"

"Because I didn't want to talk to you."

It's blunt and to the point, and I feel a little mean for kicking the man while he's down, so to speak, as I head round to the bank of lockers behind the stretcher to grab the thermometer (I tried - and subsequently failed - to use the loose grip I had on his wrist to gauge his temperature). But then, I suppose we were going to have to hash things out at some point – it's just unfortunate that Steve decided to bring it up now when it's all still a little raw. Setting the gray case down on the counter, I'm naively hoping that the former SEAL will drop the matter as I slip a cover over the thermometer's tip and then go to perch on the edge of the stretcher at his hip.

"Can I check your temperature?"

I'm fully expecting to be told where to go – i.e, to take a long walk off of a short pier – but not the way that Steve seems to almost deflate right where he's sitting, like he's decided it's easier to give up than go round and round in circles arguing with me. There's a sort of incredulous smile tugging at corner of his mouth as he drops his head to the floor and then he rubs a hand across his face before making a 'yeah, whatever' gesture with it and letting it drop to his lap. Sighing, I shuffle forwards on the bed, reaching up to gently pull the tip of Steve's ear back before I press the probe into his ear to take his temperature.

"Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you the other day," I say softly while I wait for the thermometer to beep. "I should have talked to you, instead of barging into your office like that. I didn't return your calls because what you said hurt and, rightly or wrongly, I needed a little bit of space."

"You can't just ignore things and hope they'll go away," Steve tells me quietly. "It doesn't work like that, Chlo."

"Then how does it work?" I ask him, checking the number on the screen when the thermometer beeps. Clucking my tongue, I turn it around the show Steve the reading and announce, "Okay, you have a fever - you should be at home in bed, not running around outside in ninety-degree weather channeling Rambo."

"Rambo was in the army. And don't change the subject," he grumbles as I stand to dispose of the throw-away probe cover; it gets flicked into the general waste bin and I set the thermometer back in its case before sinking down onto the bench seat across from him. "Look," I say, leaning forwards to rest my elbows on my knees. "I don't want to argue with you. I don't. So, could we maybe just… I don't know, try to put this behind us?"

I reach across the aisle but Steve pulls away before I can take his hand and I freeze for a moment, a little hurt by the rejection even though I can understand the reasoning behind it, before curling my fingers into a loose fist as I sit back in my seat. Chewing on my lip, I nod as I drop my gaze to my boots and then push myself upright.  
"I'm going to ask my partner to take a look at your shoulder," I mutter, stepping over Steve's foot as I head for the back door. Wrapping a hand around the handrail, I pull the handle below it and then shove the door open with a little more force than necessary; it bounces back off the rubber stopper behind it and I curse under my breath when I stave my finger trying to stop it hitting me in the face as I jump down onto the pavement outside.

I'm not sure Mike really buys my excuse but he's nice enough not to question it as he follows me back to the rig to take over where I left off. I tell him about the commander's elbow-as-a-battering-ram stunt (he was a little surprised when I grudgingly revealed how I knew Steve's Tetanus was up to date) and the low-grade fever as we walk along the road so he's fully aware of what's going on as he climbs up into the back of the rig and tells Steve to remove his t-shirt. I busy myself filling out paperwork as the former SEAL awkwardly tries to pull him arm through his sleeve without jarring his sore shoulder, and I end up taking pity on him when I notice him struggling to pull his t-shirt up without wincing (because it's painful to watch).

Leaving the drugs log on the jump seat, I walk around the head of the stretcher to hold Steve's shirt up while he works his good arm out of his sleeve. Once it's free, I tug the bloodstained blue tee over his head and slide the bunched up material down over his sore arm, and then drape it over the head of the bed before I sit back down to continue with my paperwork.

"Any idea how you hurt yourself?" Mike asks a minute or so later as he pushes his fingers into the top of his patient's shoulder just below their collarbone. The pressure elicits a grunt of pain from Steve and he squirms slightly as Mike moves around over the top of his shoulder, telling him, "I got tackled and fell, landed on my arm."

If he's fallen, he could have injured his rotator cuff (the group of muscles responsible for stabilizing the shoulder joint and allowing it to rotate) or even fractured his clavicle and I glance up as Mike gently runs his hand across the length of Steve's collarbone before asking him to lift his arm as high as he can. From the little lines of pain that appear around the commander's eyes, I'd say the motion is sore but not excruciating, like it would be if there was a fracture or a break and I'd say I'm about 95 percent confident that Steve has a strained rotator cuff or at worst, a minor tear, as Mike slips past me to prod at his patient's shoulder blade.

"I'm sure you already know this but I'll go over it with you again just to be sure," Mike says once he's satisfied Steve's injury is minor enough to be treated at home. "You need to rest your shoulder for the next couple of days. Ice it – twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off – three times daily and take Ibuprofen, or whatever OTC anti-inflammatory meds you've got at home, to help with the pain and the swelling. If it's not better by say, Tuesday, then you need to go see your doctor."

There's a knock on the door as Steve nods and I open the back door to find Kono standing outside, dangling her car key from her finger. "Hey, how's it going in there?" she asks, using his forearm to shield her eyes from the bright mid-morning sun.  
"He's nearly done," I tell her, jumping down onto the pavement beside her and then pushing to back door to. Pointing to her keys, I ask, "I'm guessing you drew the short straw?" and Kono laughs when I continue, "Well, good luck. He's being _extra_ stubborn today – trying to reason with him was like having a tooth pulled without anesthetic."

"Yeah, the boss can be a little intense - I sometimes think he forgets he's not on active duty anymore, you know?" Kono concedes with a small smile. "Danny and I tried to talk him into going home earlier but it didn't go down very well - no surprise there, though, right?"

"Not even a little bit," I tell her with a wry grin. I have no doubt that Steve's team are more than capable of keeping whatever they've been working on ticking over and while Danny would no doubt have bitched about being left to deal with Steffi, he would have done it no questions asked to save his partner from having to drag himself out of bed. But then, I suspect that the former SEAL is a closet control freak and the thought of leaving his team to deal with Steffi _and_ a murder investigation was just too much for him to bear.

It's funny, really – funny sad, not funny ha ha – because Steve spends so much time worrying about everyone else yet, when the tables have been turned and he's the one needing a little TLC, he can't push – or should that be shove – everyone away quick enough. I actually feel a little sad for the former SEAL because he should be able to crawl into bed for a couple of days when he's not well instead of feeling like he has to run himself into the ground. It must show on my face because Kono reaches out to squeeze my arm and then says, "I'll talk to him in the car. Is there anything I need to know for when I get him home?"

I give her the Cliff Notes version of the speech I gave to Mike but when I get to the part about trying to get Steve to go to bed (and stay there until he doesn't look like something the stray cats outside my building puked up), Kono holds a hand up to stop me, saying, "That might be a little difficult - it's Grace's party this afternoon."

"I forgot about that," I mutter, rubbing a hand up over my face. I know the former SEAL would rather cut off his own hand than disappoint Grace so I change tact, telling Kono, "I'm not going to waste my breath even suggesting that he should miss it because I know he won't listen. See how he feels once he's gotten some sleep," and then I laugh when she replies, "I'll sit on him if I have to."

"It would be easier for you to just cuff him to the bed," I tell her as I step to the side to avoid being hit by the door when it opens. Steve's standing by the foot of the stretcher, slightly hunched oveer and holding a throw-away icepack in his good hand, and Kono steps forward to meet him as he eases himself down onto the back step and then onto the pavement.

"Hey, Boss. All set?"

He nods and Kono links her arm through his, telling Mike and I, "Thanks, guys," as she steers her C.O. back across the street towards the police cordon.

"Enjoy the party," I call after her. "Tell Grace happy birthday for me."

**H50*H50*H50**

When I'm done at work, I meet Katie at the Hilton for dinner and then we head home for a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. Jammies, wine and tissues sorted, we flip a coin to see who gets to pick first – Katie – and then settle in to watch troubled teen Shane West fall in love with terminally ill Mandy Moore. After A Walk to Remember, I choose Dear John and then it's The Notebook. I fall asleep with my feet up on the couch about twenty minutes in and wake approximately half an hour later to Katie gently shaking my leg.

"Your phone's ringing," she says, pointing to where my iPhone is vibrating its way across the top of the coffee table in front of us. "That's the second time in less than five minutes."

Rubbing at my eyes sleepily, I lean forwards to snag it before it works it way over the edge and frown at the caller ID as I use the edge of the coffee table to push myself back up onto the couch; the person looking for me is calling from an unknown number cell phone number so it could be anyone from, say, my dad (my brother bought him an iPhone the other week so my parents can talk to me on 'the Facetime') to Danny and I tuck my legs under my butt as I answer the call and put the phone up to my ear.

"Hello?"

"_Hi, is this Chloe_?"

The voice belongs to a young-sounding woman and my brow furrows as I struggle to place it.

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"_It's Mary._" There's a pause and then, when the name doesn't seem to click, she adds, "_McGarrett. Steve's sister?_"

"Oh, hey," I say, propping my phone between my cheek and my shoulder as I reach for the remote to pause the DVD player. Katie mouths an indignant 'Hey!' at me and I make a 'what?' face back at her before dropping the remote on the couch at my feet while I ask Mary, "What's up?"

"_Could you come over?_" she starts, and there's an almost frantic undertone in her voice as she continues. "_I know I was kind of a bitch to you and I wouldn't normally ask but Steve, he's… something's wrong_."

"If it's that bad then you need to call for an ambulance." Untangling my legs, I swivel round and take hold of my phone again, leaning forwards to rest my elbows on the tops of my thighs just as Mary chuckles wryly.

"_If it were that easy, do you think I'd be calling?_"

Okay, maybe she has a point.

Truth be told, I'm torn between heading straight over there and telling her no, because Steve made it pretty clear earlier that he doesn't want anything to to do with me (whether its work related or not). But on the other hand, I feel kind of obligated to help because of the oath I took when I became a fully-fledged EMT; it's similar to the Hippocratic one taken by doctors in that I swore to 'share my medical knowledge with those who may benefit from what I have learned'.

I read that as doing whatever I can to help even when I don't necessarily want to which, in this case, means changing out of my jammies and going over to Steve's to see why he's got his sister so worried. So, scrubbing a hand over my face, I push myself to my feet as I tell Mary, "Yeah, okay. Just... send me your address so I don't take a wrong turn and end up on the other side of the island."

"_Thank you,_" she says sounding relieved, as though whatever pressure she's been under has been lifted off of her chest and she adds, "_I'm going text it to you right now_," before she ends the call. Hanging up on my end, I sigh and toss my phone onto my newly vacated seat cushion, and then fix Katie with an apologetic look as I skirt around the edge of the coffee table.

"It's fine. Go," she says, rolling her eyes at me as she reaches for the remote to restart her movie. "You can make it up to me later."

"Dinner and drinks are on me next week," I promise before heading along the hall to my room to swap my Nightmare Before Christmas jammies for boardies and a Henley that I stole from He Who Should Not Be Named. My wet hair gets scraped up into a messy topknot and I slip my bare feet into an old pair of sneakers before heading into the kitchen to grab my car keys and purse.

"Don't wait up. I don't know how long I'll be," I tell Katie as I lean over her to snag my phone off the couch and then head towards the door.


	18. Chapter 11 - part 3

_Sorry... RL caught up with me and I've just had no time to sit down. The next part has been started and will hopefully be up for Christmas._

_As always, thanks to everyone who's taken the time to favourite, follow and review._

_Finally, I'm not a doctor or a paramedic, so everything you read here should be taken with a pinch of salt. All mistakes are mine since this is not beta-ed._

ETA: Thanks to ireadwritesail for spotting the silly mistake I made when I was editing this chapter (I tried to PM you but I can't, for some reason). :)

* * *

Mary's text comes through just as I'm getting in the car, and I plug her address into my Sat Nav, before following the voice instructions to Piikoi Street, where I crawl along the street until I spot Steve's truck in one of the driveways. Instead of pulling in behind it, I bump my car up onto the curb outside (just in case) and then jog up the garden path to where Mary is pacing along the length of the front porch, lit cigarette in her hand. When she spots me, she quickly stubs it out on the railing and comes to meet at the top of the steps.

"He kicked me out, said I was in the way and could I please let him throw up in peace," she grumbles, although the way she's fidgeting with the hem of her sweater tells me that her annoyance stems from concern rather than anger; she reminds me of Danny in that respect, except the detective tends to take the whole hiding-behind-a-mask-of-sarcasm thing a little further than Mary has by adding insults.

Following Steve's sister through the front door into the living room, I can't help but smile when I spot the 'Happy Birthday, Grace (_Hau'oli la hanau)_' banner that's hanging from the upstairs landing. From the state of the living room, I'm guessing Gracie's party was a roaring success; there's wrapping paper scattered over the floor and a princess tiara sitting on top of the coffee table and then, in front of the dining room slash office, there's an archway made up of balloons in every color of the rainbow. The dining table is dotted with paper plates containing varying amounts of leftover birthday cake.

I wish I hadn't had to work.

"How did it go?" I ask Mary, only to frown when she replies, "Yeah, it was good. It would have been better if Steve was there, though – Kono and I ended up manning the grill between us, so it was a miracle that there was any food at all."

"Steve missed Grace's party?"

Mary nods, and says, "I know, right?" and I can't help but think that it's such a shame - Steve must have been feeling pretty awful to have voluntarily missed it. Mary confirms my suspicion when she tells me, "He's been throwing up for _hours_ – it wasn't that bad to start with but now… I tried to drag him to Urgent Care but he refused to go."

"Right," I murmur, running my thumbnail over my lower lip when I realize that Mary expects me to work a miracle and talk Steve into seeing a doctor (assuming he needs one). He obviously hasn't confided in her about our bust up and I'm half tempted to warn Mary that I might not even get as far as making sure her brother is okay before he tries to kick me out. And by 'okay' I mean relatively, because Steve's obviously not _okay_ okay if he's spent most of the day in bed.

"I'll see what I can do," I tell Mary as I make my way towards the staircase in the corner. She doesn't question me but I can feel her eyes on the back of my head all the way from the bottom riser to the last step onto the upper landing at the top. Knocking on Steve's bedroom door, I poke my head around it when I don't get an answer and then slip through the gap into the darkened room; the blind above the bed has been pulled and the curtains are drawn over the French doors that lead out onto the upper Lanai but there's a sliver of light shining out from under the door to the en-suite and I head over, only to hesitate for a moment before gently rapping my knuckles against the doorframe. There's a muffled cough and then Steve grumbles, "What part of _go away_ do you not understand?"

"It's Chloe... Can I come in?"

Unsurprisingly, the answer is no, but well, I can be just as Stubborn as Steve when I have to be and I'm not leaving until I've talked to the former SEAL face to face.

"Look," I say, leaning forwards until my forehead is resting against the painted doorframe. "I get that I'm not your favorite person right now but your sister called me. She's worried about you..."

_I am, too, _I add silently, wrapping my fingers around the door handle when the sound of retching, followed by the toilet flushing, reaches me on the other side of the door.

"Please," I continue out loud. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

And that's the truth. Steve and I may not be talking but that doesn't mean that I don't care about what happens to him – I care a little bit too much, if I'm being totally honest, and even through I instigated our falling out, it hurts to think that I've ruined things between us.  
I guess I was trying to protect myself after the whole Eddie Ray fiasco – by forcing Steve to snap, I gave myself a reason to push him away and, to add further insult to injury, I hit him below the belt by using his protective streak (which is the size of the Grand Canyon on a good day) against him.

You're probably thinking _what a bitch_, right? _Why should Steve forgive someone who didn't even have the decency to let him explain his actions before they bit his head off?_

Well, the answer's simple: He shouldn't. End of story, bye bye, see ya later…

And even if he did forgive me, things between us probably wouldn't be the same. It kinda sucks to think that this whole thing could have been avoided if I'd just taken a new pen out of the box in the rig, like Heather had suggested. I guess hindsight _is_ twenty-twenty after all…

On the other side of the door the former SEAL retches again, causing me to grimace in sympathy as I come to the conclusion that it's easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission (for what I'm about to do, not what I've already done) and then open the bathroom door. Poking my head through the gap, I push the door open fully when I spot Steve sitting on the floor in the space between the toilet and the wall.  
His forehead is cushioned on his forearms, arms folded across the rim of the bowl as he works to get his breathing back under control and he barely acknowledges my presence as I ease myself down onto my knees beside. When I twist to peer at his face, I frown at the bright pink splotch on his cheek and then press the backs of my fingers against the flushed skin – just by feel, it's pretty obvious that Steve's fever has worsened significantly.

"What is going on with you?" I murmur as I sit back on my heels to try to work out how I'm going to fit the commander's mish mash of symptoms neatly into one box. Food poisoning seems like the most obvious choice, what with the seemingly endless puking that's been going on, and I rub small soothing circles over Steve's back as I ask him, "Think you might have eaten something bad last night?"

But that theory goes out the window when he shakes his head and mumbles, "Gracie's fine," in between gasping breaths.

"And you guys had the same thing," I conclude. "Okay, what about today?"

Steve shakes his head again, which I take to mean that he hasn't managed anything as I tick food poisoning off of my list of possibilities; there's so many options that I'm not really sure where to go next in terms of figuring out whether or not I need to drag Steve's stubborn butt to the ER and I end up chewing on my lower lip as I try to figure out a game plan.

"Okay," I say, reaching for Steve's arm once I've decided what to do. "Sit yourself up for a minute." I gently tug on his wrist until he pushes himself away from the toilet with a groan, using the wall to prop himself up while I get to my feet and then head over to the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink to rummage through it for a thermometer. Steve does actually own one – albeit, one of the ancient mercury types that I haven't seen since my brother and I were kids - and I quickly clean it under the tap with a little bit of soap before giving the glass tube a short, sharp flick.

When I turn back to Steve, he tries to bat my hand away, protesting, "It's just a bug. I'm fine," pigheadedly and I snark back, "Yeah, you look it," as I go to restrain his good arm and then hold the thermometer at his lips.

"The sooner you do this, the sooner I'll stop poking at you and leave you alone. C'mon…"

I just about manage to resist the urge to pat him on the head when he grudgingly relents after another minute or so of prodding; letting his head fall back against the wall, Steve winces when he uses his sore arm to take the thermometer from me and he complains, "You're worse than both Danny and my sister put together,' halfheartedly before putting the thin glass tube in his mouth.

Smiling to myself as I set the timer on my watch, I tell him, "That's because I – _we - _care about what happens to your stubborn ass. Now hush, or we're going to have to start over."  
When my watch beeps I reach for the thermometer to check the reading (103.8) and mutter, "You don't do anything halfway, do you?" under my breath as lean forwards to unzip the gray Naval Academy hoodie Steve's wearing; he shivers, even though the small bathroom is warm enough that I'm sweating, and mumbles something about hiding his phone from his sister – Mary must have taken it to get my number – as I strip off his top layer and then drop it on the floor behind me.

Reaching for his arm, I press my fingers into the underside of his wrist to check his pulse (a little fast) and then gently pinch the skin on the back of his hand; it takes a few seconds to go back to normal, which means that I'm dealing with mild dehydration – I should be able to sort it by getting Steve to drink a solution that's made up of a little salt and some sugar dissolved in water, and if that doesn't work then it's off the Emergency Room we go.

I'm hoping it won't come to that, though. I figure that if I can get a handle on the puking (and in turn, the dehydration and the fever) then I can leave Steve to try to sleep this thing off, assuming that there's nothing more sinister than a stomach bug going on. If not, then all promises of being left in peace will be rendered null and void with immediate effect.

"Does anything hurt – stomach, head… back?" I question, taking Steve's hoodie with me when I stand and then draping it over the side of the bath on my way to check what meds are in the mirrored cabinet over the sink.

He mumbles, "Yeah, my back from sitting like this all afternoon," under his breath and I turn in time to see him shift uncomfortably before he admits, "Everything's kind of achy. It feels like the flu on steroids."

_Right,_ I think to myself as I select an amber bottle from the row on the medicine cabinet's top shelf. Turning it round to check the label, I do a double take when I recognize the generic name of the little blue pills – they're anti-depressants that are used in the treatment of PTSD, amongst other things (I remember my auntie taking it after being diagnosed with postnatal depression) and it's a little disconcerting to think that Steve, who's always seems so strong, could be so haunted by the memories of the things he's seen and-or done that he felt like he couldn't cope with them anymore.

I run my tongue over the sharp edge on my front tooth as I swap the amber bottle for a white one containing antibiotics left over from last autumn. The rest contain painkillers of various strengths, from Aspirin all the way up to Oxycodone and I select the Advil after a minute's thought, setting the container down on the side of the sink before I tell Steve, "I'll be back in a minute."

Mary's hovering just outside the bedroom door, scratching at a nick in the wooden handrail that runs the length of the upper floor, and she rounds on me like a dog on a bone when I step out onto the landing and pull the door closed behind me.

"Is Steve okay? He didn't kick you out, did he?"

"No, no…" I shake my head and point towards the stairs as I reply, "He's a little dehydrated but I think I can sort it – I just need to borrow your kitchen."

"Right…" Mary chews on her thumbnail uncertainly and then glances over my shoulder at the door to her brother's room, and I squeeze her shoulder comfortingly before saying, "Come downstairs and show me where you keep everything. I don't know where anything is."

I don't know if more Mary's thankful for the distraction or the company as she follows me down the stairs into the kitchen, where she rummages through the cupboards for salt and sugar while I fill the kettle and put it on to boil. The room is silent apart from the low rumbling of the water heating up and it's like déjà vu when young woman sets the two condiments down in front of me, and then pushes herself up to sit on the counter.

She swings her legs back and forth while we wait for the kettle to come to the boil, only stopping momentarily to point me towards the cutlery drawer when I ask her where I can find a teaspoon, and I quickly measure out six teaspoons of sugar and a half-teaspoon of salt into a measuring jug before dissolving the mixture in a liter of water. It gets set on the counter to cool and I lean back against the island in the middle of room, and think to myself, _God, I hope this works._

If this stays down and I manage to get Steve's fever down a little bit then I can put him to bed - with precautionary trash can, just in case - and head home to fall face-first into my own. And if it doesn't, then… well, I'll come to that if and when I have to. Once my homemade electrolyte solution has cooled, I pour some into a glass and carry it up the stair to Steve, who takes it from me with shaking hands and then balances it on his bent knee.

"It's not going to do any good sitting there," I scold as I ease myself down onto my knees beside him, clutching the Advil that I'd left on the side of the sink in my fist. Lifting the glass off of Steve's knee, I thrust it at the former SEAL's chest and then tell him bluntly, "Drink or you're going to end up in the hospital."

Chastened, Steve grudgingly takes a cautious sip and then pauses, as though he's expecting his stomach to revolt almost instantly against the meagre amount of water. When it seems like it's going to stay down, he swallows the Advil that I press into his hand without any complaint.

In hindsight, pushing meds so soon was a mistake on my part; less than a minute after taking the little red pills, Steve's jaw clenches against a rising wave of nausea that sends him scrambling for the toilet, where he heaves and chokes so violently that I'm concerned he's going to end up passing out. Cupping the former SEAL's forehead with one hand, I use the other to rub circles over his back while he coughs and splutters and when it's over – and Steve's breathing like a sixty-year-old fat man climbing a flight of stairs – I ask him tentatively, "Think you're done for now?"

I get a muffled '_Hmmm'_ in reply and then Steve goes to push himself up, away from the toilet bowl. But his arm buckles and I end up lunging forwards to try to catch him in case he whacks his head off of the rim on his way down.

"Woah!"

I manage to get my arm around Steve's chest and then grunt in pain when I fall sideways onto my butt, knocking my hip on the side of the toilet as I go down. It's awkward as hell trying to keep his almost dead weight from pinning me to the floor and I wonder if I should maybe shout for Mary as I use my shoulder to try to hold the former SEAL up long enough to bring my other hand back round under his arm – I'm thinking she had the right idea when she tried to drag Steve's stubborn butt to Urgent Care earlier as I manhandle her brother upright and prop him up against the wall.

Murmuring, "Relax, you're okay," I scan the room for a washcloth or a hand towel – anything I can use to wipe down Steve's pale, sweaty face – and then twist to look over my shoulder when the door opens behind me. Mary pokes her head into the small bathroom and her eyes widen almost comically when she takes in my slightly frazzled appearance (my top is damp with sweat under the arms and my hair looks like I stuck my fingers in the wall socket – I _knew _I should have plaited it when I got out of the shower). When she spots her brother, who's still not quite with it after his near face-plant, she quickly slips through the gap, her pretty face crumpling as she takes in the way Steve's slumped against the wall with his head cradled in his hands.

"What's wrong with him?" she asks me quietly once she's managed to drag her gaze away from her brother.

"I don't know."

Rubbing at my hot, gritty eyes, I worry at my lower lip as I try to figure out how the hell I'm going to convince Steve that he needs to see a doctor - because that's the conclusion I've come to; if he can't keep fluids down, he's going to dehydrate even further, which will raise his body temperature, which in turn will cause his heart rate to increase and his blood pressure to drop. This so-called 'stomach bug' could end up landing Steve in a whole lot of trouble.

"Help me get him up," I say to Mary once I've decided that dragging Steve's stubborn butt to the emergency room is the right decision. She dutifully steps over her brother's outstretched leg while I push myself up onto one knee on the former SEAL's other side.

I'm sorely tempted to try to get him downstairs and into the car while he's still a little out of it, mainly because I don't think either mine or Mary's already elevated stress levels could take another one of Super SEAL's obstinate '_I'm fine' _protests, especially right off the back of him swooning like a Victorian lady getting her corsets laced. I, personally, think that I would be perfectly justified in doing so but then, I don't think my back could take having to essentially carry him down the stairs; Steve's six foot three and a hundred and eighty pounds of lean muscle (believe me when I say there's not an _ounce_ of fat on him) whereas I'm barely five four in Katie's highest heels.

So, since I kinda like be able to walk without looking like a ninety-year-old woman with a hunch, I try to bring Steve round a little bit before Mary and I attempt to get him to his feet – whether or not he'll stay there is another matter, but first thing's first…

"Hey, Steve?" I call softly, gently pulling the former SEAL's hand away from where he's digging the heel of it into his forehead. When I set his arm down across his lap, he turns his head to squint at me and then his sister, who's crouched down in the small space between him and the wall and a tiny groove appears between his eyebrows when I tell him, "I think it's time to admit defeat. Can you make it to the car or do I need to call for help?"

Seemingly resigned to his fate, Steve doesn't argue. Instead, he mumbles, "Yeah," and then slowly pulls in his outstretched leg, digging his socked heel into the tiled floor for purchase as he goes to push himself up.

"Hold on a sec. Let us help you," I say, putting a hand on Steve's chest to stop him while Mary grumbles, "I told you we should have gone to the Urgent Care clinic earlier," at her brother as she none-too-gently tugs his other arm down and the wraps her hand around it. I copy her, although I take a little bit more care so that I don't jostle Steve's sore shoulder as I get ready to take his weight, and then on three, we haul the former SEAL to his feet. He tries to help but mostly ends up flailing; Mary grunts under the strain of trying to keep him from going back down and I hear her mutter, "You really need to lay off the malasadas," under her breath as we prop her brother up against the wall.

Once we're sure he's going to stay semi-upright for a moment or two, we swap sides. Mary heads downstairs to grab the keys to her brother's truck while I shift under Steve's good arm and then twist my hand in the waistband of his sweatpants - it's not quite as effective as hooking my fingers through a belt loop but it'll have to do. Glancing up at Steve's face, I grimace and then readjust my grip to get a better hold on the fabric; there wasn't much color in the former SEAL's face to begin with, but whatever little was there is now long gone – he's white as a sheet as he drops his head and then swallows hard, and for a moment I wonder if we're going to end up back on the floor since Steve appears to be losing the battle with his protesting stomach.

I check, "Okay?" and then shift my other hand's grip on Steve's wrist even though he nods (because his throat is still working overtime to push down on that horrible sick feeling). Still, it's a little while before he actually makes an effort to move towards the door and then there are a few near misses trying to navigate the stairs; from the way Steve's breathing, you'd think we were running an ultra-marathon and not just walking the fifty-odd feet between the en-suite and the driveway. My lower back is screaming by the time we reach the porch steps and I grit my teeth, muttering, "Almost there," when I feel the commander starting to lag – it's almost like his body is giving up and I honestly feel like crying when Steve's knees buckle just a few steps away from the truck.

"No, no, no… The truck's _right there_," I whine as I struggle to keep the both of us upright. "_Please…_"

Of course, Mary's nowhere in sight, having gone back into the house to grab her brother's wallet and a trashcan, so my options are pretty limited - I could try to shout for her (and wake up half of the neighborhood in the process) but who knows how long it would take for her to come, or if she'd even hear me in the first place? But it's fine. I can do this… I mean, women lift cars off of their babies all the time and they weigh as lot more than Steve does. This should (hypothetically) be a piece of cake… right?

Yeah…

"Okay, you need to at least _try _to help me out, here," I tell Steve, somewhat desperately as I dig my heels into the ground and push up against the almost crushing weight that's pressing down on my shoulders. "C'mon, Super SEAL, this is nothing compared to BUD/S… _The only easy day was yesterday, _right?"

Steve nods weakly in reply and mumbles something that sounds like it could be _never quit_ under his breath before taking a stumbling half step towards the Silverado - it's not the most comfortable feeling in the world, trying to keep the weight at the back of my neck from pitching both of us forwards, but at least we're moving.

Trying to get Steve up into the back of the cab is like a skit in a bad comedy (or possibly what it's like wrestling with an over-amorous octopus) and I end up laughing semi-hysterically out of sheer relief once I've gotten his legs into the foot well and shut the door. As I'm wiping my eyes (it's been a hell of a long day and I'm suddenly feeling a little emotional), Mary appears holding a bucket and I follow her around to the driver's side, where I climb into the back seat next to Steve and then set the bucket down at my feet. Mary slips in behind the wheel and starts the engine, and then hastily reaching for her safety belt, while I lean over her brother to fasten his and then slide into the middle of the bench. Guiding Steve's head onto my shoulder, I tell Mary, "Okay, let's go."


	19. Chapter 11 - Part 4

_*peeks out from behind fingers* Is it safe to come out?_

_Sorry it's taken so long to get this up but I got so stuck with it. It sat on my laptop for weeks without being looked at before I decided to start over. But anyways, here it is... __I kind of threw this together in a desperate attempt to get this story moving forwards again but at least now I can move onto the getting the next chapter down on paper (I have a pretty nifty little trick up my sleeve for that one *grins wickedly*)._

_Thanks again to ireadwritesail for spotting the glaring error in the last chapter._

_Un-beta'ed, as per usual. Still not a doctor, either. _

* * *

It takes twenty-five minutes to drive to Kings' Emergency Room from the McGarrett beach house and Mary pulls the Silverado up to the curb right outside the automatic doors when we finally arrive. She hurriedly shifts the truck into park and then slides out onto the road, leaving me to gently nudge Steve awake. He spent the first ten minutes or so shifting uncomfortably in his seat but then stilled as we pass UH at Manoa, his too-hot cheek burning a hole through the shoulder of my Henley, and I feel a little mean disturbing him when he's finally found some respite from whatever this illness is that's been plaguing him.

But then Mary points out the parking attendant making a beeline for us and mumbles something about not being able to afford another ticket (we're stopped in a no parking zone), and poor Steve ends up being manhandled out onto the pavement before he can wake up enough to help. It's like wrestling that over-amorous octopus all over again as we try to keep him upright long enough for me to duck under his arm (limbs _everywhere_…) but we manage and Mary jogs back around to the driver's seat to move the truck as Steve and I start to inch our way towards the Emergency Room doors.

"Fill that in and take it in with you when you get called," the woman sitting behind the counter instructs, sliding a form on a clipboard and a pen through the little window at the bottom of the glass separating her from the people in the waiting area.

Sighing – because I don't have any of Steve's insurance information or know anything about his family history – I guide a still-woozy Steve towards two empty chairs in the corner beside the toilets. As I expected, trying to extract anything of use from the former SEAL is like trying to draw blood from a stone and ten minutes later all I've managed to fill out are his name, address and date of birth – information that the staff no doubt already have thanks to Super SEAL's tendency to attract trouble. That stills leaves symptoms, allergies and a list of any current medications. Turning my attention back to Steve, whose eyes slid shut just about as soon as he sat down, I huff inwardly and then reach over to give his leg a shake.

"They need to know if you have any allergies."

Steve shakes his head drowsily so I tick the 'No' box and then continue, "Okay, medication. Are you taking anything?"

"Not unless you count Tylenol," he mumbles, wincing slightly as he shifts in his seat and then props his elbow up on the arm of his chair. With a sigh, he rests his head on his hand and his eyes slide shut once more; it's almost comical just how quickly they fly open again when I probe, "So, you're not taking the Zoloft that's in your medicine cabinet?"

Unsurprisingly, Steve's jaw clenches. It's subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice the change in the commander's demeanor, but I do and, honestly, it kind of hurts that Steve feels like he can't trust me. I suppose I can't really blame him – Steve probably thinks that he'll be seen as weak for not being able to deal with his demons without chemical intervention if anyone ever finds out that he's been prescribed antidepressants. It's an unfortunate stigma that's not only archaic but potentially dangerous as well (just last week Heather and I were called out to someone who'd slit their wrists after stopping their medication a few weeks earlier due to an off-handed comment made by a work colleague) and if Steve doesn't want to talk to me about it, then that's his prerogative. Or it will be once he's answered my question.

"Yes or no, Steve?" I press, looking up from where my pen is poised above the form, ready.

"No," he concedes eventually. "I couldn't concentrate. It was interfering with work."

"Okay. Right, moving on."

Now is probably not the time to mention that he shouldn't have stopped his meds without the okay of his doctor so I clamp my mouth shut and let my eyes drift down the form to the section headed 'reason for visit'. Chewing on my lower lip, I scribble _high fever and can't keep anything down_ in the box and then tuck my pen underneath the metal clip.

Crossing one leg over the top of the other, I risk glancing over at Steve, who – surprise, surprise – has angled himself away from me towards the wall and, wearily forcing air out through my nose, I slide further down in my seat and then tilt my head back until the back of my plastic chair is resting just under my messy topknot. Truth be told, I probably would have had the same reaction if the tables were turned. No one – whether that person happens to be me, Katie or Super SEAL over there - wants their weaknesses to become public knowledge.

Bouncing my propped-up leg up and down, I glance around the crowded waiting room before turning my attention to the TV on the wall. _Keeping Up With The Kardashians _has been replaced by a local news channel report and the reporter on the screen is gesturing towards the beach in the background. I can see from the subtitle reel below him that he's talking about the shark attack that happened just off of Mokuleia on the North Shore this morning. Mike was navigating the rig towards Halawa when the crew in attendance radioed for the Medivac chopper to airlift the surfer to Tripler Army Medical and we later heard that they had, thankfully, managed to save him.

After the shark attack report, it's a fatal collision on the Farrington Freeway and then the discovery of a woman's body in an alley in Chinatown, all doom and gloom with side order of death. Call me cynical, but I get enough misery at work that I've become a little de-sensitized to it outside of the 'office'. If I didn't switch off, so to speak, I'd probably drive myself to distraction thinking about it all.

Huffing quietly, I shift in my seat, switching my legs around, and then glance back over at Steve. He hasn't moved a muscle since I last checked on him a few minutes ago and he doesn't even so much as twitch from where he's dozing in his seat, head propped up on his fist, when I tentatively reach over to slip my hand into his. Giving it a gentle squeeze, I chuckle – because Steve normally has this uncanny ability to be instantly awake at the quietest of sounds or slightest movement – and lean back in my chair, rubbing circles over the back of Steve's hand until I hear the triage nurse call his name. Pulling my hand out of his, I stand and gently wake him, and he squints up at me blearily.

"That's you. C'mon."

The triage nurse is an older, motherly woman, who smiles warmly as she waits for us to make it the twenty or so feet across the crowded room. Steve's moving at the speed of a stoned snail but the smile doesn't leave here face until she's got him seated the small room just off the main waiting area. She takes the clipboard from me and skims through the completed paperwork before setting the clipboard down on the desk at her hip and pointing me towards the single chair along the back wall and wheeling the blood pressure machine over from the corner. Pushing a few buttons on the screen, she slides the pulse ox clip onto Steve's index finger and then pushes his sleeve up to wrap the cuff around his bicep.

It's not a surprise when his blood pressure turns out to be a little on the low side. He's borderline tachycardic, too, and the nurse clucks her tongue softly as she notes the two readings on the triage chart on her desk. His temperature is also up slightly to 103.9 and the nurse – Marie – tuts sympathetically when I describe how Steve nearly collapsed after being violently sick. Patting his shoulder kindly, she tells him, "Just a few more questions, Commander," as she notes the Advil I gave him at the bottom of the chart.

A 'few' turns out to be eight and range from _'How long have you been vomiting?' _to the more mundane '_Do you smoke_?' and then Marie stands, telling Steve, "Sit tight, I'll be right back," as she heads for the door directly across from Steve and to my right. It leads out into the corridor used to access the various treatment areas by the paramedics, and sometime, the police, and once Marie has disappeared around the corner towards the nurses' station, I slouch down in my seat and pull at a loose thread at the bottom of my boardies.

The material around the loose thread quickly begins to pucker and I smooth it out with a sigh before glancing over at Steve. He looks like he's on the brink of passing out again, his face flushed as he reaches up to tug at the next of his t-shirt, and I end up sending my chair skidding across the gray lino floor as I stand and make my way over to crouch at the former SEAL's side.

"You okay?"

"Think I'm gonna be sick again," he mutters, prompting a semi-frantic search for one of those little cardboard bowls. When I find one in the cupboard under the desk, I shove it under his nose but thankfully it appears to be a false alarm and Steve nods shakily when Marie reappears and asks if he feels up to walking through into the treatment area. He takes the cardboard basin with him when he wearily climbs to his feet and lets me slip my arm through his as Maries steps back to let us through into the corridor outside, where a second nurse is stood waiting. Marie introduces her to us as Anna, one of three nursing students on placement in the ER this week, and it's she who leads us through the maze of corridors towards the first of Kings' three treatment areas.

It's slow going and by the time we get to the first of four coded-access doors, Steve's dragging his heels and starting to sway where he's standing. It's so slight at first that I barely notice it – in fact, it's not until he makes a hasty grab for the wall that I realize what's going on. "You're fine. Just… sit down before you fall, okay?" I murmur, grabbing hold of Steve's arm as he starts to slide down the wall. It's not so much a faint as a slow motion crumple but we still both hit the floor with a muffled_ ooft _and a thud. Before I know it, Anna's on her knees in front of us, doing her best to hold Steve up so I can untangle myself from beneath him. As soon as I'm free, she eases her patient back down and then pushes him forwards until he's sitting with his head between his knees.

"I'm going to get some help," Anna decides once she's checked Steve's pulse. Climbing to her feet, she glances over at me, asking, "Are you okay to stay with him?" I nod but Steve shakes his head vehemently. "I'm fine," he insists, trying to sit up. "I just need a minute."

Clucking disapprovingly, Anna leans across me and gently pushes Steve's head back down, ignoring the muffle protest that follows. Catching my eye, she then hurries off though the gray swinging doors to source a wheelchair, leaving me to watch over Steve and gently card my fingers through the front of his short, dark hair. It doesn't take long for him to groan and turn his face into the side of his knee, and I huff softly as I grudgingly let me hand drop down onto his shoulder.

"You're something else, you know that?" I tell him after a moment of silence, wincing at the heat that I can feel radiating through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. "You're the only person I know who could pretty much collapse with a hundred and four fever and still find the energy to complain about being petted, of all things." Scrubbing at my eyes with the back of my hand, I look up sharply when the doors to my left fly open and Annaliese appears pushing a wheelchair. She brings the chair up behind her and then locks the wheels, and I quickly scramble to my feet so I can help her help Steve up. He buries his face in his hands once he's seated and then I barely have time to brush off the back of my boardies before Anna starts pushing him towards the treatment area.

Once Steve has been wheeled into a cubical and the chair parked at the side of the bed, Anna pulls an ugly diamond-patterned gown from one of the cupboards that run the length of the wall behind me and then sets it down at the foot of the bed. "I'm sorry, but you won't be able to stay," she tells me as she bends down to check the wheelchair is locked in place. Indicating the orderly that wandered into the cubical behind her, she adds, "I'm sure Hanale won't mind showing you the way back to the main waiting room once he's finished in here?"

Hanale looks up from where he's toeing at a scuffmark on the tiled floor at the mention of his name, only to shrug as if to say 'suit yourself,' when I tell him, "I'm okay, thank you." Taking a step towards Steve, I crouch down at the side of the chair and gently pull his hand away from his face, causing Steve's pale face to crease into a frown. Anna is hovering non-too-subtly behind me and I tell Steve quickly, "They're not letting me stay. I'll find Mary and let her know what's going on, okay? And if I don't see you later, I hope you feel better soon."

Pushing myself back to my feet, I follow Anna out in the corridor, where she tells me that someone will come and tell me what's going on in a little bit before pointing me in the direction of the waiting room. Turning smartly on her heel, she pulls the privacy curtain across the doorway to Steve's cubical with a brisk flick of her wrist, leaving to wander back through to reception by myself.

The crowd in the waiting room has thinned out a bit in the twenty or so minutes I was back there with Steve and I spot Mary almost immediately. When I step away from the doors to the treatment area, it takes a few seconds for her to notice me but when she does, she springs to her feet and forces herself to wait until I'm sliding along the row of plastic chairs just down from her to demand, "Where have you been? And where's Steve… what's going on, is he okay?"

"In there and then in the treatment area. They took him straight through to see the doctor," I mutter, pointing to the triage rooms as I let myself flop down into one of the seats. Crossing one leg over the top of the other, I slouch down a little and let my head fall back onto the top of my chair, and then turn to glance up at Mary, who's still standing, looking at me expectantly. "You might want to sit down. We're probably going to be here for a while."

She hesitates and then folds herself back into her chair with an aggrieved-sounding sigh, folding her arms across her chest as she turns her attention to the TV on the wall ahead. Two-and-a-half hours, and a few position changes later, we're still waiting and I catch myself just as my head starts to drop towards my chest. Rubbing my gritty eyes, I push myself up in my seat and squint blearily at my watch until the numbers come into focus. It's well after midnight now, which means that I've been awake for a little over 21 hours.

In four hours time, my alarm will go off, signaling the start of another work day and, between you and me, I'm seriously considering making my excuses so I can try to get a couple of hours sleep before I start my shift. _You won't be any good to anyone if you're too tired to think straight. Mary will understand, _I argue with the little guilt-inducing voice inside my head as I do my best to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn; part of me feels a little bad for even considering leaving Steve's sister her by herself but at the same time, I'm way past being able to rely on drinking an almost obscene amount of coffee to keep me awake.

Rolling my head across the back of my chair, I glance over at Mary, who's distractedly scraping the dark blue polish from her left pinky finger with her thumbnail and, leaning my palms on my thighs as I go to stand, I mutter, "I'm going to go get coffee. Want anything?" Mary shakes her head so I start to work my way to the end of the row - mumbling an undeserved apology to the woman whose bag I nearly fall over in the process - and then grind to a halt mere _steps_ from the vending machine when someone calls out Steve's name behind me.

I'm reduced to whimpering like a scolded puppy as I turn on my heel and go to join Mary and yet another nurse by the gray doors that lead to the treatment area. "You can come through and sit with him if you'd like," the young woman says, swiping her access card and then holding the door open for Mary and I. We follow her along the two-toned corridor through another door and then hover uncertainly outside one of the curtained-off cubicles while our escort checks there's nothing that requires a little privacy going on inside. When she's satisfied, she pulls the curtain back and ushers us inside before introducing us to nurse number four – a larger local woman named Amy.

Amy fishes a wheeled stool out from under the wall unit on my left and then quietly excuses herself to go off in search of another, despite my protests that I'll be perfectly fine standing and, once she's gone, Mary takes a step forwards and wraps her hands around the rail at the side of the bed before taking a moment to study her brother, who appears to be sleeping peacefully. The fine lines of pain around Steve's eyes that were prominent earlier have been smoothed out and his cheeks aren't nearly as flushed. He still looks exhausted, though, and suddenly I'm hyper-aware of the way my sneakers squeak against the tiled floor with every step as I move over to where Steve's lying propped up against the raised headboard.

Someone has thoughtfully placed a pillow under his right arm to support his sore shoulder. That same arm is sporting two IVs – one near his wrist and the other in the crook of his elbow – while the other has a pressure cuff wrapped around it and there's a pulse ox monitor clipped onto Steve's index finger. Joining Mary at the side of the bed, I let my eyes drift over the hospital gown that's been draped over Steve's chest and spot a third port peeking out from under the flimsy blue and white material; the cannula has been placed just below the former SEAL's collarbone and is attached to a length of IV tubing that's been taped down to leave only the green-capped injection port at the end free.

"He looks better."

"Yeah," Mary agrees quietly. Her knuckles are white where she's got a stranglehold the bedrail and she has this look on her face, like she's not sure if that's actually the case.

"You know he's going to be fine, right? In a couple of days, he'll be back to driving everyone crazy and we'll all be wishing he was still laid up at home," I say, turning to look at the older woman, whose eyes are still locked on her brother's face. Her own doesn't even so much a twitch in recognition of my reassurances and I sigh internally as I drop my gaze back down to Steve.

"Not quite so super today, are we, Super SEAL?" I mumble to the sleeping commander and I swear the corner of Mary's mouth twitch into a semblance of a smile as I reach out to tug the ugly patterned gown up from where it's slipped down over Steve's shoulder. Mary chuffs under her breath as I do the same with the blanket over her brother's legs and then drops her head as she fumbles in the pocket of her sweats for what I realize is a packet of cigarettes. She uses the packet to motion towards the curtained-off doorway behind her and asks, "Do you mind?"

The way she's fidgeting reminds me of a cornered animal looking for an escape route and, while the medic in me wants to lecture her about the dangers of smoking, I can kind of understand the attraction right now. Plus, it would be pretty hypocritical of me given how I tend to drown my emotions in a bottle of wine (or vodka. Or Jack Daniels) when I'm feeling stressed. So I nod and then chuckle when Mary nearly trips over her own feet making a dash for the door – or, in this case, curtain. It flutters shut behind her, leaving me alone with only my thoughts and a still-sleeping Steve for company.

Scrubbing tiredly at my eyes, I turn to look for the stool that Nurse Amy had left out for us. Wheeling it closer to the bed, I plonk myself down and glance around the room before turning to look over my shoulder when – speak of the devil - Nurse Amy pushes her way back into the cubical carrying a plastic chair. She's followed by a trim, older man with close-cropped greying hair, whom the nurse introduces as Dr. Lennox as the scrub-clad man skirts around to foot of the bed to grab Steve's chart off of the unit across from me. She sets the chair she's carrying down in the corner and then busies herself organizing supplies, and she offers me a comforting smile as I push myself up off of my seat.

"Should I wake him?" I indicate Steve as the doctor starts to flip through his file and then glance over at Amy self-consciously when Lennox looks up to glance over at his patient.

"Do you think you could?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. And yeah, okay… Steve appears to be dead to the world, despite it sounding like someone's being exorcised a few cubicles down (we're talking full-blow toddler meltdown, here).

When I concede the doctor's point with a tilt of my head, the doctor grins and then leans over the bedrail to give the former SEAL's arm a shake. Steve's brow furrows, but he doesn't make any effort to move or open his eyes. Even when Lennox pushes down on one Steve's nail beds, he still doesn't wake so, chuckling, Dr. Lennox admits defeat and sets his patient's arm back down on the bed.

"He obviously doesn't feel like joining us. No worries, we can catch him up later. His sister, too."

Taking a step back, the doctor rests his hip on the unit behind him and then folds his arms across his chest. "So, after reviewing the results of the tests that I ordered, I'm pretty confident that we're dealing with an acute kidney infection," he reveals. "I've already started the process to have the commander admitted since I'm not convinced that we've got enough of a handle on the nausea and dehydration to send him home."

In other words, any prescribed antibiotics won't work if Steve pukes them back up before they can make their way into his bloodstream.

"I'm going to get him started on a course of antibiotics while we're waiting on a bed becoming available upstairs," Lennox continues. "In the meantime, the plan is to continue treating the dehydration and fever as we have been. I've left orders for painkillers and an anti-emetic – just let Amy…" He pauses to gesture towards the nurse, who looks up from where she's checking the tubing attached to the port in Steve's wrist. "Know if they're needed and she'll sort them out for you, alright?"

I nod.

"Okay, then. Any questions?" the doctor asks, unfolding his arms as he goes to slide down off of the counter. I start to shake my head, only to think of something just as the doctor goes to step out of the crowded cubical into the main thoroughfare.

"How long?"

The doctor stops in his tracks and turns back. "How long should he expect to be here for?" Lennox tilts his head while he considers the question and then offers, "A couple of days, I would think. There's no point discharging him until he's able to continue with the course of antibiotics at home."

With that, the doctor takes his leave and Amy steps forwards armed with a thermometer. A quick check reveals that Steve's fever has come down slightly, but truth be told, I was kind of expecting there to have been a little bit more of a drop; I pull a face when Amy announces that Steve's temperature is down to 103.1 from 103.9 but she seems happy enough with the result and hums softly to herself as she turns to put the thermometer back in the narrow basket under the blood pressure monitor.

Once she's made a note of the reading in Steve's chart, the nurse skirts around the head of the bed to check the bag of IV fluids and she must catch sight of the dejected look on my face because she reaches out to pat my shoulder before adjusting the plastic clamp on the tubing running from the back into Steve's wrist. "He's doing just fine," she says, offering me a warm smile as she takes a moment to fuss with the blanket over her patient's lower half. "I'm just going to go find out which antibiotic the doctor wants him on and then I'll be back to get that started."

Thanking Amy, I grimace as my lower back protests the many hours spent sitting hunched in God knows how many plastic chairs and push my hips forwards in an attempt to ease the ache. When that doesn't work, I rest my forearms on the bedrail in front of me and lean forwards, only to pause when I think I see Steve's pinky finger twitch. Cocking my head, I watch the former SEAL's face intently for any signs of waking and reach over the rail to take his hand in mine when a fine line appears between his brows.

"Steve? Are you waking up?"

I risk rubbing a small circle over the back of Steve's hand with my thumb, being careful to avoid the IV tubing that's been taped down at his wrist and then huff when the tiny line disappears almost as quickly as it appeared. "No one likes a tease, Steven," I grumble halfheartedly, letting my thumb still but not letting go of the rousing SEAL's hand as he mumbles something under his breath and then turns his head into his pillow.

"Hey," he mutters groggily a few seconds later, bringing the hand sporting the pulse-ox clip up to scrub almost clumsily at his face. The effort of having to lift his arm quickly becomes too much and the former SEAL groans as he lets it drop back to the bed and then lets his eyes slide shut again. For a moment I'm not sure if he's gone back to sleep again and I wait for him to see if he's going to open his eyes again before asking how he's feeling.

"Tired," he croaks, sounding just as exhausted as he looks. His voice is almost non-existent and he clears his throat with a grimace before mumbling, "Feel sick, still." The weary complaint that follows - _'feels like I got hit by a bus'_ \- makes the corners of my mouth turn up into a wry smile as I turn away to grab an emesis basin from the pile on the worktop behind me and set it down on the mattress by Steve's hand. Leaning over the bedrail to gently pull his gown back up from where it's fallen down over his shoulder, I ask softly, "That bad, huh?"

"Hmm…"

With a pained sigh, the former SEAL sinks further into his pillows and I reach over to tug the blanket up higher over his chest when he shivers. The little vee between his brows is back and there's a pink tinge to the tips of Steve's ears that make me suspect his fever could on the up again. With a sigh of my own, I step forwards and press the back of my hand against his forehead, and then frown when Steve shivers under my touch. Reaching for the blanket, I pull it up over his chest and tuck the edges in around his shoulders. Steve stirs as I as I lean over the bedrail to press my lips to his forehead and he blinks up at me owlishly through his lashes.

"What's going on?" he mumbles, the vee between his eyebrows deepening as he fights to keep his eyes open. "Chloe?"

"Yeah, I'm here." I reach up to brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead as I tell him, "I'm going to get the nurse, okay? And then once I've done that, I'm going to go find your sister and get her to come sit with you. I need to go home and sleep for a couple of hours before I start my shift but I'll come by and see you after work, okay?"

Leaning over the bedrail to carefully wrap my arms around Steve in a hug, my smile starts to falter when I feel just how much effort it's taking for him to just to lift him arms up, never mind squeeze me back. His arms are trembling by the time I release him and I hover at his elbow while he gets himself situated in bed and then tug his gown back up over his shoulders.

"Okay?" I check, smoothing out a wrinkle in the blanket over his legs. "Do you need anything before I head out?"

"My cellphone? It's in there somewhere. In one of my pockets," Steve mumbles around a yawn, waving his IV-laden arm towards the unit behind me. Turning, I crouch down and rifle through the lower cupboards until I find the plastic bag filled with the former SEAL's belongings. His cellphone is in the first pocket I try and he mumbles a barely audible 'thank you' when I hand it to him after stuffing his sweatpants back into the bag and putting the bag back in the cupboard.

"Thanks, Chloe," Steve mumbles and I flash him a small smile over my shoulder when I reach the privacy curtain at the bottom of the cubical.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

With that, I slip through the gap in the curtain and head out into the corridor to look for Nurse Amy or Mary, but preferably both.


	20. Chapter 12

_Okay, Eric Russo? Legend…_

_As usual, this is unbeta'ed so any and all mistakes are my own. A mahoosive thank you to everyone who favorited, followed and reviewed - 127 followers and 163 reviews! I still can't quite believe it..._

_This one's a bit more Chloe-centric. I hope it was worth the wait._

_A/N: 02/05/16 - updated chapter so reposted. Sorry... _

* * *

Did you ever have one of those days where you wish you'd just called in sick and spent the day curled up with the comforter pulled up over your head? Well, today is turning out to be one of them.

It all starts when my alarm goes off a mere two and a half hours after I fell into bed face-first, still fully clothed. I wake feeling like I've just come off a weeklong bender and sit with my legs dangling over the side of the bed, head buried in my hands, until my second, 'emergency' alarm goes off; yawning, I bat my hand in the general direction of the 'stop' button until the incessant beeping ceases and then push myself up to fumble for work-appropriate underwear on the way to the bathroom.

In the shower, I turn the hot tap up as high as I can stand and spend a blissfully steamy two minutes letting the almost scalding water run down over my neck and shoulders. Afterwards, when I'm dry and wrapped up in a fluffy oversized towel, I wipe away a patch of condensation and peer critically at my reflection in the mirror. It's not a pretty sight; the bruising around my eye may have finally faded to the point where I can show my face in public without scaring young children, but the bag underneath is a masterpiece worthy of Vuitton and not far off in terms of color, either.

And, as if looking like I've aged ten years overnight wasn't bad enough, I go to squeeze a blob of toothpaste into my mouth to clean my teeth and spot what looks like it could be a monster cold sore developing along my bottom lip.

Sighing, I duck my head to spit and when I plunk my toothbrush back in the cup, it's with just a little bit more force than necessary. I'm already getting the feeling that it's going to be 'one of those' days so I decide to forgo my usual concealer-and-mascara routine in favor of going _au natural_ for once and then set to work dividing my already-unruly hair into three sections so I can pull it back into a braid out of the way.

My new look causes a few raised eyebrows in the staffroom when I wander in after collecting my keys and radio from Christina at the front desk. I've been buddied up with Mike again and I find him lounging on one of the long couches in the corner by the kitchenette area. Yesterday we fell into a wonderfully snarky back-and-forth that generally consisted of him saying something vaguely insulting about my hair or my accent and me firing right back at him with something equally as acerbic, and it just kind of stuck – by the time we stopped for lunch it felt like we'd been partners or, at least, friends from the get-go.

Grinning up at me as I motion for him to move his booted feet off the chair, Mike quips, "Halloween's not 'til the end of next month," and then he groans dramatically when my elbow purposely finds its way into his ribs a few seconds later.

"Serves you right," I mutter, reaching for the newspaper that's been abandoned on the coffee table in front of us. "And just so we're clear," I continue, opening the front page of the paper. "I may look like Casper the Friendly Ghost right now, but tomorrow I'll be back to my normal gorgeous self and you'll still look like that."

"Ouch." Mike mimes stabbing himself through the heart, pulling down the top of my paper so I don't miss a single moment of the continued feigned heartache and, smirking, he chuckles when I snatch the page away to carefully smooth the crinkled sheet out over the top of my thigh.

"You're incorrigible," I grumble as I stand to deposit the paper back on the table where I found it.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"That's because it is." Flopping back into my seat, I tip my head back and press my fingers into my eyes. "Wake me up when its time to go start prep, will you?" I request, slouching down in my chair.

"Hot date last night?" my partner asks, a suggestive smirk in his voice.

"What do you think?"

Mike snorts and just like that, the tension is broken. "You've got ten minutes before we need to go," he says, pulling the worn cushion out from behind his back and proffering it to me like it were a cache of jewels or perhaps a ream of fine, raw silk. He waggles his eyebrows and then laughs outright when I grab the cushion and use it to swat him over the head. Then, faking annoyance, he grumbles, "Don't think I'm sharing my lunch with you after this," as I proceed to drape my legs over the tops of his and lie back against the arm of the couch with my eyes closed.

* * *

In the end, we don't make it as far as lunch.

We're on our way to a call about a month-old baby boy found unresponsive in his crib when things go from _meh_ to seriously fucked up. The light has gone from green to red by the time the traffic in front of us moves aside so I ease my way out into the intersection in the hope that someone will stop to let us through. Even though we're coming through on lights and sirens, the onus is still on me to make sure it's safe for us to go and I lean forwards over the steering wheel to get a better view of the road ahead as I wait.

"Clear my side," Mike reports, holding up a hand in thanks when the traffic slows to let us out. Checking my own side, I see that the silver Civic on my left is hanging back and start to pull out into the junction. All is well until a gray Nissan Qashquai with blacked-out windows doesn't brake in time and smashes into the Civic just as we're passing in front of it.

My eyes widen in horror as the Civic is shoved forwards and spins around, and I don't know why, but I stamp on the accelerator in an attempt to get the rig out of the path of the out-of-control car. It's stupid, really, because the rig makes my old Camry look like a super car in terms of acceleration, and all I manage to do is send us careering headfirst into the guardrail meant to protect pedestrians standing on the sidewalk from exactly this kind of thing; the bus comes crunching to a sudden halt and I smack the side of my head on the A-pillar as I'm thrown forwards in my seat while Mike ends up sprawled across the center console, where he lies motionless for what feels like an eternity.

"Oh, God…"

Panicking, I reach over to shake my partner's shoulder but stop myself when he groans and starts to gather his arms beneath himself. He gingerly rubs at his chest where his seatbelt locked into place over his collarbone before tentatively asking, "Did we hit them?"

Nodding, I let out a strangled whimper in place of the emphatic '_fuck_' I usually reserve for moments such as these because, well... fuck doesn't really do the horrible sick feeling that's almost suffocating me any justice. I'm absolutely terrified that I've seriously injured someone and I can't help but let out the gasping sob that's been bubbling up in my chest when I catch sight of someone trying to smash the driver's side window of the crumpled Civic out of the corner of my eye.

I'm supposed to help people, not hurt them.

Forcing myself to calm the fuck down, I whip around to fumble with my seatbelt and then jerk back when I come face-to-face with a concerned-looking Mike. He grabs my hand before I can feel for the button to unclip it and then peers at me critically, his eyes skirting over what I'm assuming must either be a mark or a lump on my forehead from my little encounter with the doorframe. "You're bleeding."

Frowning, I run my fingers over the skin above my eyebrow and, sure enough, they come away tacky with blood. It stings like a bitch and I bite my lip as I shake my head to stave off the tears I can feel building behind my eyelids; blinking rapidly, I insist, "I'm fine, I'll sort it later," and then go to pull away.

"Chloe, stop…" Mike yanks me back when I twist to undo my belt and that's when I snap: "I have to go help!" I yell, unsuccessfully trying to yank my arm away so I can go and at least _try_ to make myself useful. But Mike shakes his head.

"No, you stay here. I'll go," he says, undoing his seatbelt. "Radio control and tell them to send another unit to that call in our place, okay?"

I must nod because he slips out of the cab and disappears around the back of the rig, and I'm left to contact the control room back at the depot. I can barely get the words out when the dispatcher tells me to go ahead with my message, I'm shaking so violently, and it takes the guy on the end of the line a good minute to make any sense of what I'm babbling about once he's dispatched a second crew to the job we were en-route to. Before clicking off, he assures me that both HPD and our watch commander are en-route, and promises to send another bus just in case.

"ETA is 4 minutes," he tells me around the click of his fingers on his keyboard. "Call me straight back if you need additional units or if anything changes."

Blotting at the still oozing cut on my forehead with my shirtsleeve, I drop the radio handset onto the bench seat and then turn to fumble with my seatbelt until it pops out the clip with a quiet _snick_. Feeling for the door handle, I frown when the door refuses to budge; growling in frustration, I ram my shoulder against the sill over and over again until my shoulder throbs sharply. It's no use, though – the door is stuck fast and I'm forced to clamber awkwardly over the center console to escape through the passenger-side of the cab.

Outside, I walk in increasingly frantic circles until I spot Mike kneeling down in the open doorway of the totaled Civic and I breathe an almighty sigh of relief when I realize that the elderly female driver is conscious and talking, and appears to be relatively unharmed – a miracle, given the state her car is in. The Qashqai is in a similar condition, it's front end completely destroyed where it hit the Civic head-on at speed.

The rig hasn't fared much better if we're being totally honest; the driver's side has taken the brunt of the impact and the cabin door and wheel arch are both buckled beyond repair. The front bumper's been torn off, too, and debris from all three vehicles has been left scattered across the width of the junction, leaving me to pick my way through twisted scraps of metal and shards of glass as I hurry over to join my partner by the mangled Civic.

There are sirens wailing in the distance as I crouch down beside Mike and it's not long before we're being told to move aside to let two of our colleagues check out the Civic driver; ushering us towards the curb at the back of the black-and-white cruiser, the older of the two uniforms presses a navy HPD windbreaker into my hands and motions for me to drape it over my quaking shoulders before joining his partner taping off the road behind the wrecked Qashqai, and I tug the borrowed jacket tightly around myself as I sink down onto the sidewalk next to Mike, who bumps his shoulder against mine.

I have to bite my lip hard to stop myself bursting into tears at what was meant to be a supportive gesture. It's irrational, I know, but I'm absolutely terrified that the watch commander is going to fire me on the spot and Mike's face creases into a frown when he catches me swiping at a traitorous stray tear; pulling me into tight hug, he mutters, "You did everything by the book. Shit just happens sometimes, got it?"

"Yeah." Nodding against his shirt, I swipe at my face one more time for good measure and then pull away, mumbling, "I'm good. Thanks."

"Good," Mike says, pointing to a silver Ford Explorer that's pulling in across the street. "'Cause the Brass just pulled up. Stick to the facts when you talk to them, okay? And don't let them intimidate you - you didn't do anything wrong."

Because we were on a blue light run at the time of the collision, both Mike and I immediately pulled off our shift and taken back to the depot to be interviewed by HPD, our watch commanders and station commander, and both of their immediate supervisors; we're separated and ushered into two different conference rooms at the back of the control center, and I sit in anxious silence until my watch commander comes in to talk to me a little over twenty minutes later.

Unexpectedly, he's alone and the older man's face is almost impossible to read as he comes into the room, and closes the door with a quiet _snick. _I keep my gaze locked firmly on my hands as my CO tells me that senior command is waiting on HPD reviewing the traffic cam footage of the incident before decide what action, if any, to take. My breath catches in my chest and I don't even bother trying to hold back the tears when Bravis tells me that I'm being suspended with immediate effect.

"It's standard procedure," he explains as I stare at him in shock. "As soon as you're cleared, you'll be fully reinstated."

"Could I be looking at charges?" I manage to stutter, staring at the watch commander in shock at the mention of possible disciplinary and-slash-or legal action.

Sighing, Bravis rubs a hand through his short graying hair before standing and pushing his seat back under the table. "That's not for me to decide," he says, patting my shoulder sympathetically as he passes my chair. Continuing on to the door, he pauses with a hand on the handle but this time there's nothing compassionate in his voice when he tells me, "You can go once you've spoken to HPD. Make sure to hand in your ID and swipe card before you leave."

My interview with HPD is both physically and mentally draining, and by the time the aging detective declares there to be no more questions, I'm just about ready to lay my head down on the table and cry myself to sleep right there where I'm sitting. In fact, if it wasn't for Mike appearing seemingly out of nowhere and then physically pulling me up out of my chair, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what I would have done; hauling me upright and then giving me a nudge towards the door, Mike steers me towards the break room where he deposits me onto one of the sofas with a gentle push before holding his hand out for my keys and radio.

When he reappears a few minutes later, he's got my bag slung over his shoulder and my sneakers are dangling from his hand. He's silent as we walk side-by-side along the corridor towards reception, and once he's handed over my equipment to Christina, who takes it all without a word, he steers me outside, where we stand in the shade of one of the tall palms that line the sidewalk at the front of the depot.

Placing my shoes in my bag, Mike pulls a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter out of his knee pocket and lights up, leaning back against the stucco wall as he watches me stare past the chain-link fence surrounding depot. There are planes taxiing up and down the runway behind us and I follow the path of numerous Hawaiian Airlines jets until they disappear behind an angry-looking bank of clouds while, beside me, Mike blows out ring after ring of smoke before stubbing his cigarette out against the wall.

"C'mon, I'll give you a ride home," he says, flicking the butt into the ashtray by the door. Pushing away from the wall, he readjusts my bag on his shoulder and goes to lead the way to his car, and I have to grab onto his sleeve to stop him. Offering him a weak smile, I hold my hand out for my bag.

"Actually, I think I'm going to head over to Kings for a bit. I promised my friend I'd stop by after work, so…" I trail off, letting the 'I'll have plenty of time to visit them now' I know we're both thinking go unsaid as Mike clears his throat awkwardly.

"Well, you might want to clean up a bit before you go," he says eventually, shrugging my bag down off of his shoulder. Holding it out for me to take, he uses his free hand to indicate my soiled shirt and the area around my eye before pulling a 'yikes' face, and I let out an indignant 'Hey!' as I lean over to thump him on the arm.

* * *

I stop off at the market on my way to visit Steve and on a whim, I toss a couple of magazines into my cart along with the requisite hospital gift bag stuff – fruit and nuts, candy, a disposable razor, etc. Then I add wine, two jumbo bags of Doritos, baby wipes and a tube of concealer before making my way to the checkout.

Back in the car, I strip off my bloodied uniform shirt (thankfully, my undershirt appears to be stain-free) and use my fingers to dab concealer over the red mark on my forehead until it's no longer noticeable. I do the same with the dark circles under my eyes, blending and re-applying until they disappear and I no longer look like I've been crying. I figure that Steve and I have enough to talk about without adding my most recent woes to the mix.

At Kings, the lady at the information desk points me towards the third floor and I slump against the wall of the elevator, which sounds as though it could possibly be on its last legs. It lurches to a stop after what has to be the slowest climb in the history of mankind and I make a break for it before the door has fully opened, just on the off-chance that it might rise up and join the list of things currently trying to make my life a living hell.

According to the map in the lift lobby, Steve's room is on the smaller of the two wards on this floor and I rub sanitizer gel into my hands while I wait for someone at the nurses' station to buzz me in through the door. Once inside, I swing the carrier bag containing Steve's gifts back and forth as I walk along the corridor checking for the right room. I'm actually kind of looking forwards to seeing him but whether or not that feeling will be reciprocated, I don't really know. Hopefully it will be.

I find Steve's just around the corner from the nurses' station and, squaring my shoulders, I plaster a smile on my face and then reach for the door handle, only to drop it like a hot stone when I feel it turn in my hand. Startled, I step back as the door is pulled open and a pretty brunette in a white naval uniform steps out into the corridor.

"Uh, hi… Can I help you?" she asks, smiling at me expectantly even as my eyes automatically flick to the nametag above her right breast pocket (Rollins) and two gold braided stripes on her shoulders. If I remember correctly, two stripes means she's a senior lieutenant - the grade below the Lieutenant Commander position Steve holds – and I immediately wonder if I've maybe put my foot in it by not knocking.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" I motion between the lieutenant and Steve's room. "Because I can come back later…"

Thankfully, the lieutenant shakes her head. "Steve owes me dinner for helping out with a case a few weeks back. I was hoping to collect," she says by way of explanation as she closes the door to the former SEAL's room behind her. Striding further into the hallway, she adds, "Steve's doctor came by a couple of minutes ago – I thought I'd give them a little privacy. Hopefully they won't be too long."

Looking back over my shoulder at Steve's room, I hesitate before reluctantly joining Super SEAL's lieutenant friend on the bench against the back wall. Truth be told, her being her has kinda thrown me for six, and the knot of what had been hopeful anticipation now feels like a lump of lead sitting heavily at the bottom of my stomach. It's almost as if I'm unconsciously feeling threatened by her presence. Or jealous...Which is ridiculous, right?

_Right?_

Shuffling awkwardly in my seat, I surreptitiously glance sideways at the lieutenant. It's a mistake because Lieutenant Rollins isn't just 'pretty'. No siree, she's gorgeous – stunning, even - with big brown eyes and cheekbones a supermodel would be proud of. And – _and – _she's absolutely tiny, too. I feel like the _Stay Puft_ marshmallow guy out of Ghostbusters sitting next to her in my clumpy Magnum boots and baggy unisex cargo pants.

Of all the days to go make-up free, I had to choose the day Steve's beautiful, kick-ass Navy Lieutenant friend… yeah, let's go with _friend_… decided to drop in for a visit.

Sighing, I drop my gaze back to the floor and then blush furiously when I realize that my attempt at subtly giving Steve's friend the once-over was actually anything but. Flustered, I clear my throat and fidget with the handle of my plastic carrier bag while I try to think of something to cover my little indiscretion - cue what my mom likes to call 'a senior moment'; all I manage to come up with is, 'So, how do you and Steve know each other?' and I cringe internally when I hear how forced it sounds. But if the lieutenant notices, she's, thankfully, too polite to say anything.

"We met at Annapolis," she offers instead, referring to the Naval academy in Maryland. "And we served together for a while. I'm Catherine, by the way."

"Chloe."

"The medic." It's a statement rather than a query and when I raise a questioning eyebrow in her direction, Catherine smiles. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Really? I haven't heard a _thing_ about _you_…"

As soon as it's out there, I grimace, silently ruing my sudden lack of brain-to-mouth filter. I'm normally pretty good at catching any gaffes before they're put out there where they can't be taken back, but this time… Oopsies…

"I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me," I mutter, my cheeks growing hot as Catherine eyes me guardedly from the other end of the bench. Biting down hard on the inside of my lip, I make a tactical decision; bending down to grab my bag, I stand and wave off Catherine's gratuitous (and, not to mention, undeserved) requests that I should stay, insisting, "No, I should go," as I start towards the exit.

Pausing in front of the lieutenant, I mumble, "Sorry, again," before walking away, cringing at the way the plastic bag containing Steve's stuff rustles loudly as it bounces off the side of my thigh with every step. I can feel Catherine's eyes boring into the back of my head along the length of the corridor and I keep my gaze straight ahead until I come to the door leading out into the elevator lobby.

Thankfully, the elevator car is empty when it finally arrives and once the doors have inched their way shut, I lean my forehead against the cool metal wall, and let out a low groan. I stay that way until the little bell sounds to signal that we've finally arrived at the ground floor and when the doors slowly start to creak their way open again I reluctantly push myself upright.

Outside, the sun has disappeared behind the angry-looking black clouds from earlier and the wind has picked up, turning what had been a mild, tropical breeze into a cold wind that causes gooseflesh to erupt over my bare arms; shivering, I curl in on myself as I hurry along the sidewalk towards the parking lot, visions of spending the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch with a good book and a much-needed glass of wine going a little way towards lifting my spirits.

I'm halfway to my car when someone behind me calls out my name and I turn almost automatically, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear when the brewing stormy wind whips it from my braid. It's Danny, looking almost unrecognizable in his off-duty uniform of jeans and a gray t-shirt, and I hug my arms to my body as he crosses over the road to meet me.

"I didn't think we'd see you until tonight," he says as he greets me with a hug and I hum vaguely in reply, scared that if I even try to explain why I'm here in the middle of the day, I'll end up a hysterical, blubbering mess. Plus, there's no way my cheap, supermarket concealer will be able to stand up to the tsunami of tears so yeah...

It's around now that I realize I've been clinging onto Danny for a lot longer than your standard hug permits and I pull back as though I've been burned, mumbling yet another apology as Danny cocks his head to one side and gazes at me critically; it's unnerving, the way his blue eyes almost seem to bore into my soul and I look away, fidgeting with the handle on my plastic bag until I can't stand it anymore.

"_What?"_

"Something's different," he says eventually, motioning towards me with one hand. But whatever it is, he doesn't get a chance to say because my cell phone starts to ring; startled, I frantically dig it out of my pocket in case its work calling and then frown when I see my parents' home number flashing up on the illuminated screen.

We have a standing arrangement where I text them my shifts for the week every Saturday so they know when will be a good time to call (this is definitely not one of them), so all I can think is that my mom has somehow found out about my suspension and is either calling to A, try to persuade me to move back home or B, ream me out. Or both.

I may be twenty-five and living four thousand miles away from home but that hasn't stopped my mom scolding me like an errant teenager when I do something wrong. Now, don't get me wrong – I love my mother dearly but sometimes she can be overbearing to the point where I can't take it anymore and snap, and I grimace at the sudden memory of one particularly furious argument that ended in a full-blown screaming match on the front lawn as I let my thumb hover uncertainly over the 'accept' icon.

"Are you gonna answer that?" Danny asks, pointing at the still-ringing handset and, shaking my head, I shove my phone back in my pocket where it continues to vibrate until my voicemail eventually kicks in.

"No. I'll call back when I get home." This way, I'll have some time to prepare myself for what I'm sure will be an argument that rivals Lawn-gate. Or, at least, that's what I tell myself as I turn to leave. "Tell Steve I'll call him later?" I ask and Danny nods.

"Sure. Now c'mere," he says, motioning for me to come closer before wrapping me up in another hug. This time I remember to let go before it becomes awkward and then it's my turn to nod when Danny asks, "See you tomorrow?"

"Definitely," I tell him with a small smile. "You and Mary Ann are going to need all the help you can get once Steve decides he wants to go home." Funnily enough, Danny doesn't disagree with me.

* * *

At home, I lock the front door behind me and then slump back against it while I try to figure out what to do with myself since Katie won't be back for a couple of hours yet. Between me and you, the bottles of wine I bought when I stopped at the market have been calling my name since I spotted them sitting on the shelf in front of me, so that's where I decide to start – by grabbing a glass and a corkscrew and heading for the bathroom, where I run a bath so hot it turns my skin pink within a minute of getting in.

I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, contemplating everything from my waning relationship with Steve to my upcoming dental hygienist appointment and by the time I feel ready to get out, the water has long since gone cold. Even so, the bathroom is small enough to still be humid and I sigh when I look in the fuggy mirror to find that the few sections of hair that have managed to escape from my braid have exploded into a mass of unruly curls reminiscent of a blond version of Carrot Top.

Admitting defeat, I push the stubborn stray locks back off my face and hold them in place with an elastic headband before changing into my tattiest pair of jammies and heading back along the hall to my room, where I crawl into bed and sit with my tablet balanced against my bent knees, headphones in, until Katie pops her head around my door a few hours later.

"Your brother's on the phone," she says, looking surprised to see me even as she holds out the portable handset. "He says it's important."

Frowning, I push back my comforter and scramble to the edge of the mattress to take it from her. I can count the number of times Jack's called me on one hand so I'm unsure what to expect as I raise the handset to my ear.

"Hello?"

Never one to back down from a fight, Jack's straight in there without even so much as a 'hi, how're you doing, sis? Long time, no speak'. _"Tell me something," _my brother demands in a broad, Midwestern drawl that makes me feel a little homesick. _"What's the point of having a cellphone if you never answer the goddamn thing? I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon."_

A quick glance around the room confirms that my cellphone isn't sitting on my nightstand where I usually leave it. I must have left it in the car in my rush to get inside and I make a mental note to go grab in once I've finished talking to Jack on the off chance that HPD has managed to clear me of any wrongdoing already.

"'Never' is a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" I mutter mulishly, folding my legs under myself as my brother sighs noisily on the other end of the line. Honestly, the way he's going on, you'd think I'd done it deliberately just to annoy him and I force myself to take a calming breath before I open my mouth again. But even so, what comes out sounds defensive and hostile. "What do you want, Jack?"

"It's mom, Chlo," he says and that, right there, is when my world shatters into a million pieces. Jack doesn't elaborate, but then he doesn't have to. As soon as he mentions Mom, I know exactly why he's calling and I bite down on my lip as my eyes fill with tears for the nth time today. It doesn't work, though, and I end up sobbing hysterically when the reality of the situation hits me like a freight train, dropping the house phone to bury my head in my hands.

_Cancer. _

_That pesky little lump my mother mentioned oh-so-casually the last time we spoke is cancerous._


	21. Chapter 13

_*peeks out from behind wall* __Is it safe to come out?_

_No?_

_Okay... *slinks back into hiding*_

_Just kidding. :p _  
_I realise its been a while but I fully intend to keep working on this over the next few weeks. The last thing I wanted was for this to end up sitting unfinished__ so I figured I'd better force myself to sit down and actually write something. __As always, thanks for taking the time to review, favourite and follow. :)_

_Author's warning: this chapter discusses subjects that could be a little upsetting so read on at your own risk.  
_

* * *

The Watch Commander on call – a middle-aged Hispanic woman named Carla - is surprisingly understanding when I turn up at the depot at the crack of dawn the next day but I suspect that's mostly down to how pathetic I look, with my red-rimmed eyes and a face so pale I make Betty Boop look positively tanned. Beckoning me into her office, she sits with her hands bridged beneath her chin while I tearfully explain my dilemma and when I've finished, she leans back in her chair, and eyes me sympathetically.

"Oh, dear… you're not having the best week, are you?" she says, clucking her tongue, and I can only huff in reply before ducking my head to wipe at my hot, gritty eyes. That's an understatement if I ever heard one – what with my argument with Steve, being suspended from work and now this, I'd say I'm more than overdue a little bit of a break. Right?

There's a long silence before Carla speaks again and when she goes to open her mouth, my heart starts beating so hard against my ribcage that I'm scared it's going to burst straight out of my chest, because what if she says there's nothing she can do to help me, that the only way I'm going to be able to go home is to quit? And if that does turn out to be the case, what's the likelihood of me being able to get my job back when – _if – _this whole thing is resolved? Would they even want me back?

Ugh… Sometimes I wonder how I even get myself into these situations.

Hands clenched, my fingernails digging almost painfully into the palms of my hands, I let out a full-bodied sigh of relief when Carla finally puts me out of my misery by telling me, "I think we should be able to work something out. Just give me a minute to check a few things, okay?"

Pushing her chair away from her desk, she heads out into the hallway, leaving me in the large corner office she shares with the three other shift supervisors with nothing more than my thoughts and a blossoming, pounding headache – no doubt the result of spending the majority of the last ten hours sobbing semi-hysterically into my pillow - for company.

I can't bring myself to look at the smiley, happy family photos that have been so proudly displayed on the single shelf behind Carla's desk so I keep my gaze routed firmly on the carpet by my sneaker-clad feet until she returns around ten minutes later, clutching a wad of paperwork in one hand. Sitting, she peels the top sheet from the pile, pushes it across the desk towards me and then sets a pen down on top of the proffered vacation day request form.

"Alright, here's what we're going to do…"

* * *

"So what happens once you use up all of your vacation days?" Katie asks, glancing over her shoulder before signaling and taking the up-coming exit slip.

It's later that evening and she's driving me to the airport, having managed to get me a last-minute seat on the red-eye to LAX. Earlier, she spent twenty minutes on hold with United to see if there was any way they could change the date on the ticket I bought for the trip I'd planned in November and thankfully, the answer was yes – for an administrative fee of $50, which she'd paid before I could even reach into my bag for my purse. Sometimes, I wonder what I ever did to deserve a friend like her, I really do.

"Hello? Earth to Chloe…"

Startled, I whip round from where I've been staring out of the window at the jumble of postage stamp-sized lots below the Queen Liliuokalani Freeway in a sort of trance to find Katie watching me with a concerned look on her face.

"Sorry," I mutter, unconsciously clenching my fist around the printed booking confirmation I've been clutching to my chest like a precious firstborn so I don't lose it before I'm physically _on_ the plane and taxiing down the runway. "What were you saying?"

Katie rolls her eyes at me. "I _asked _what you're going to do if you use up all of your vacation days?"

"Right." Shifting in my seat, I force myself to unclench my fist before I speak. "Umm, I'll have to take unpaid leave, but with the way my shift pattern works, I'll be good for just over five weeks. Or I will be once they reinstate me."

"And how long will that take?"

I shrug as we pull up to the curb outside Departures. "It could be anything from a few days to a couple of weeks. Either way, my vacations days won't start until the day I'm supposed to go back to work."

I let the '_if I do go back_' that's been playing on repeat inside my head for the last 24 hours go unsaid and instead focus on grabbing my carry-on bag from the trunk, and checking I'm still in possession of my travel documents. Passport and boarding cards all present and correct, I turn to offer my best friend a watery smile.

"I'll call you when I land," I promise before adding, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, okay?" which makes Katie laugh.

Stepping forwards, she wraps me up in a bone-crushing hug and by the time I pull away, both of us are blinking back tears. Wiping carefully at her eyes so as not to smudge her makeup, my best friend goes to turn back to her car and then pauses mid-step; looking back at me over her shoulder, her brow furrows and she opens her mouth to speak but whatever she was about to say she obviously thinks better of it because the little wrinkle between her perfectly manicured eyebrows disappears just as quickly as it arrived, and she forces her mouth up into a pale imitation of her natural smile.

"Have a safe flight," she says quietly and with that, she turns back towards her car and proceeds to get in and drive away, leaving me standing alone on the concourse wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

_Thirteen weeks later.  
Willard University Airport. Champaign, Illinois.  
_

I spot Katie standing outside the terminal building as I manoeuver my dad's ancient SUV up into a gap between two waiting people-carriers. She's using a folded-up newspaper to shield her hair from the fine drizzle that's been falling since early this morning and it takes her a few seconds to spot me waving at her over the top of the car, but when she does her face breaks out into a wide smile and she hurries over, pulling her leopard print trolley case behind her. Pulling the key from the ignition, I hurry around the front of the car to meet her.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you," I breathe, hugging my best friend tight. "Thanks for coming. I know it was short notice but there was a cancellation and Mom always said that she didn't want us to wait when…"

I break off when I'm hit by a sudden intense wave of emotion that threatens to knock me sideways.

Katie's brow furrows and she squeezes me tightly. "Don't cry, Chlo," she whispers, "You'll set me off, too, and we both know that I'm a seriously ugly crier."

I snort in spite of myself, because it's unfortunately true. While Katie is a solid nine in the looks department even on a bad day, she tends to take on the look of a mildly hysterical toddler whenever she's upset. And it doesn't matter what causes it – even happy tears make her look like she's having some sort of emotional breakdown. It really is quite something.

"See, now that's more like it," Katie says with a tight smile, releasing me from her embrace. "And seriously, what kind of friend would I be if I let you sit through your mom's funeral alone, huh?"

"A really crappy one?"

She cocks her finger at me. "Exactly," she says, turning to feel for the handle of her trolley case. "C'mon, let's get on the road. I'm in dire need of Starbucks and a shower after that last flight. Preferably in that order."

It's a thirty-minute drive from the airport to the town where I grew up and my family still lives, even in the middle of morning rush hour, and Katie and I spend the first fifteen or so catching up on everything that's happened since we last talked a few days ago. I've been too busy helping my brother and his girlfriend plan Mom's funeral to have anything of interest to add to the conversation but Katie fills me in on everything that's been going on at home, from the wealthy businessman that's been trying to woo her with fancy gifts and expensive jewellery, to bumping into a certain former SEAL and his partner at a recent charity event her company was sponsoring.

"He came round to the house. Did I tell you that?" she asks, momentarily glancing away from the silage fields that line both sides of I-72.

The mere mention of Steve sends the butterflies in my stomach into overdrive. I'm not proud of the way I left things between us but the truth is, I just couldn't face having _that_ conversation, especially when I'd only just found out that my mom's cancer was, in fact, terminal. The thought of losing not only my mom and possibly my job but Steve as well was just too much to bear.

Biting my lower lip, I shake my head, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead and Katie breathes out noisily before continuing.

"It must have been a week or so after you left. I came home from work one night and he was sitting on the steps outside the apartment, waiting. He said he hadn't been able to get in touch with you and did I know where you were?"

"Did you tell him?" I ask, causing Katie to level me with a look that could melt ice.

"Of course I told him. The poor guy was starting to think something awful had happened to you. I had to tell him," she exclaims defensively, eyeing me with something akin to annoyance as she hunkers further down in her seat. Folding her arms over her ample chest, she questions, "Have you seriously not talked to him at all since the hospital?"

I shake my head again and my best friend sighs noisily.

"Well, you're going to have to face him eventually," she tells me bluntly, propping an elbow up on the doorsill before turning back to stare out of the window. "Oahu is a small island and the man is a former Navy SEAL. He's going to catch up with you sooner or later, so if you have decided that you don't want to be with him any more, then the least you can do is have the balls to tell him that."

* * *

As far as funerals go, Mom's is pretty much perfect. The service is being held at the church where my parents got married thirty-two years ago and when we arrive with the main procession we're greeted by literally hundreds of candles lighting up the portrait that's been placed on the steps behind the altar where Mom's casket will sit. It's honestly just… it's so beautiful. I think Mom would be pleased with how everything turned out in the end.

While we're waiting to file into one of the pews behind Mom's siblings - Auntie Sheila and Uncle Matthew – Katie seeks out my hand and gives it a small, reassuring squeeze as Father Quinn follows the last of our small group of mourners into the church and continues up the aisle towards the altar.

It was Dad's idea to keep the service short and sweet, and, in his words, 'just like Mom'. There are more than a few tears - of joy and laughter – during the eulogy but it's not until the opening bars of Israel Kamakawiwo'ole singing Somewhere Over The Rainbow fill the church and the slideshow Jack, his heavily pregnant fiancée Marissa and I spent hours deliberating over is projected onto the stonework above the pulpit that my composure finally breaks.

It's a picture of Mom with Jack and I as babies that does it, and in an uncharacteristic display of brotherly love Jack wraps an arm around my shoulders while Katie grips my hand so tight I'm sure there's going to be a mark when she eventually lets go. On his other side, Marissa links arms with Dad just as the photo on the screen changes to one of my parents standing on the steps just outside on their wedding day.

* * *

_Two weeks later.  
__Arrivals lounge, Honolulu International Airport._

"Chloe, over here!"

I look up from my phone when I hear Katie shout and quickly abandon the text I'm in the middle of typing out to throw my arms around her when she pushes her way through the crowded arrivals hall to meet me. In true Katie fashion, once I've been released, she holds me at arms' length and runs a critical eye over me before raising a questioning eyebrow at my hair, which, thanks to a spur-of-the-moment decision, now sits just below my chin.

Okay, maybe it was more that my long hair combined with a seven or so pound weight loss made me look almost gaunt (thanks, Auntie Sheila) that was the driving force behind deciding to throw caution to the wind. Either way, when the stylist at the hair salon asked what I wanted done, I told him to go wild and the result was a messy, textured bob. It took a few days to get used to the new, much shorter style but I absolutely love it now.

"It's different, right?" I say, reaching up to tentatively finger the tips.

"Different is one way to put it," Katie says with a shrug. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth when I look at her the way Puss In Boots looked at Shrek and, needless to say, she quickly ends up folding like a cheap suit. "Okay, okay," she relents with a full-on grin. "I like it. It suits you. Now come _on_, I'm starving... My stomach's about to eat itself."

Slinging an arm around my shoulders, she marches me towards the exit and as she continues to complain about her rumbling stomach, all I can think is that it feels really, _really_ good to finally be home.

* * *

_The Five-0 gang will be back in the next chapter. Promise..._


End file.
